Name and address withheld by Jane Sigaloff


For Edward and Dora
NAME & ADDRESS
WITHHELD
Jane Sigaloff

RED
DRESS
I N K

Life 'j little curved.
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All the characters in this hook have no existence outside the imagination
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First published in Great Britain 2002
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NAME & ADDRESS WITHHELD © Jane Sigaloff 2002

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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's 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 Belt at Red
Dress Ink - for seeing what the others didn't and helping
Matt realise his potential. Kate Patten - for 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
positivityand fast-talking since 1979. Melissa Andrewes for
pedantic proof-reading 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 & Ealing High School, The Parises,
Sandy Paterson, Chris, Lavender, Laura and Alice Patten,
Margot Purtscher, The Smails, Julia Stones,
Annabelle Tym and Lizzie Tyrrell.

And finally, to the creators of Sex & The City and The West
Wing - for making British winters a little less grey.

chapter



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--/ thought I was going to burst with pleasure.
It was a match made in heaven--/ 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 developa-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 canape's 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 oc
cupants, 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 test
13


ing' 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 re
ceding 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 copy
writing 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...'
'Him...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 motorrnouth 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.'
The 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
17


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 re
member 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
cliche, 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 Mart'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...'
Mart'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 col
lege. 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
Jane Sigaloff

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
27


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 claim
ing 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

>w

JVachel 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
low much they were paying him to sleep in the upright posiion.

The house was pitch-black and, jaw clenched to prevent her
jeth 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

Creorge 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 dogeared
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-some
thing 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
37


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...'
The' 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
Jane Sigaloff

aforementioned tea towel sellers without passing up any opportunities
to flirt with cute delivery men or missing out on
bona ride 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 then
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 surefire--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?5
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 after
noon. 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

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 unconscious
ness, 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 wanning 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
Jane Sigaloff

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
50
Jane Sigaloff


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 heavensent
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

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
Jane Sigaloff

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 cliche, 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. Oneway
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 Cafe 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, undertones
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-Fm-still-at
tractive 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 Toy town. 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
Jane Sigaloff

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...' Mart'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.'
The 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 storyline
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 Nescafe?
'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
Nescafe" 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 cliches 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.
I
Mart'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 blase 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,
Jane Sigaloff

now laden with anticipation, to play havoc with her heartstrings.
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 thereis-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.
11

chapter

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

JLizzie 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 de
bris 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 telltale
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

I
'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 comers
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
hc.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 pounds 99 pence
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.
The 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.'
The 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-lifetime.
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 bad 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

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, sisterin-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 sisterin-law
and her mother exchanged knowing glances.
Who was being defensive? Lizzie had thought she was being
funny. Clearly not.
84
Jane Sigaloff


'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.
'Matt...Matt Baker.'
'And how old is he?'
It sounded like the final question from Alex, so Lizzie accepted
it graciously.
'I haven't asked for his birth certificate yet...' Lizzie smiled
wryly '...but my sort of age.' Although, actually, he might be
a well-preserved fifty-year-old for all she really knew. But
then again he wouldn't have known about the Transformers advert
if he was.
Lizzie reassured everyone round the table that it was very
early days yet, but conceded that she did like him--obviously
omitting to mention intercourse, or Clare's cynicism that he
would be in the arms of a chalet girl by now--and the conversation
was allowed to move on. Lizzie drank a silent toast
to Matt, somewhere up a mountain, and, much as she loved her
family, wished she was there with him.

December the twenty-fifth when you are unhappily married
with no children, with no close family with children, and with
parents who have decided to go and spend the holiday season
with your brother and his wife in America is possibly the worst
day of the year. Not even the prospect of a skiing holiday next
week was helping. Because that was in five days' time, and
right now every hour seemed to last three weeks.
- Presents had been exchanged over breakfast. Hers: handcrafted
silver necklace, voucher for evening spa at the Sanctuary,
new coffee table book of Mario Testino portraits--her
favourite photographer--and annual subscription to Vanity
Fair. His: another navy blue jumper--classically expensive
and at least one size too big, he could change it--Jamie
Oliver's latest cookbook--her favourite chef--and Breakfast
at Tiffany's on DVD--her favourite film.
They'd spent the rest of the morning preparing lunch--including
the new Jamie Oliver approach to Brussels sprouts.
He'd tried to be interested in her news, and she'd been more
attentive than at any other time over the last six months, but
the atmosphere was strained. Laughing a little too hard and too
early at each other's jokes. Recalling a little too eagerly anecdotes
that proved they'd once had a healthy relationship. Somewhere
along the line things had changed. Now they were
virtual strangers with a shared archive of memories. Not
enough to sustain what they didn't have now.
Today would probably have been a good time for an honest
chat. For a start they were in the same place at the same time,
and both conscious, but he didn't want to provoke a showdown
in front of her mother and so he'd been dutiful and gone
through the motions surprisingly effectively. But it was hell.
Actually, it was hell with the mute button pressed. No flaming
cauldrons. No screams. Instead completely quiet, except
for the gentle purring noise coming from his mother-in-law
dozing in the armchair by the fire and the occasional rustle of
a page being turned.
Satan had this suffering bit down to a tee. Here he was with
plenty of time to think, to hypothesise, but no suitable time to
talk. And what about Lizzie? Could it work even if he had lied?
It seemed an impossible situation. The plot of the book he was
reading seemed far more feasible, even though it involved a
race of people from a parallel galaxy. He hauled himself from
the sofa and decided to make a start on the washing up. The
roasting tray would be a welcome distraction.

Happy Fucking Christmas. Rachel was irritated and her
pride was well and truly dented. It had been the perfect moment.
Candlelight, champagne, and yet he wasn't in the mood.
Wasn't in the mood? Now he was in the bath 'relaxing', and
he'd even locked the door.
She'd spent a fortune. She'd been in full seduction mode--
Jane Sigaloff

balconette bra, stockings, suspenders and a practically transparent
negligee hiding under her bathrobe--but, nothing. And
she'd thrown away the receipt.
Now she wasn't even sure if she was feeling humiliated, furious
or just plain frustrated. She'd imagined an evening like
they'd used to have. Limbs and clothes everywhere, frantic excitement,
collapsing in a sweaty heap at the end only to shower
and start all over again. It didn't make sense. He'd always
wanted her. Tonight she'd been ready. And when she decided
something was going to happen, it fucking did.
Glaring at nothing in particular, Rachel flung her head back
onto the pillow sulkily before swinging herself back into the
upright position and finding her slippers. She needed a vodka,
a big one, or she was going to lose her temper. Ho Bloody Ho.
But if her Christmas spirit had to come from a bottle, then so
be it. No one was going to piss on her parade. Not today.

'Your throw.'
'Hmm?'
Lizzie was miles away.
'Your throw.'
So far away that a four-year-old was having to remind her
how to play a non-tactical throw-a-dice-and-get-your-col
oured-piece-to-the-other-end board game.
'Right. Sorry, Joshie...' Lizzie rolled the dice. 'Four.'
He counted her playing piece along the board.
'One, two, three, four.'
Lizzie had landed on a square with writing. Josh looked beseechingly
at his older, wiser sister.
'Read it, Jess.'
'You have missed your train. Go back to the ticket office.'
Josh squealed with delight at his aunt's misfortune. Lizzie
moved the piece back almost to the beginning and smiled
wanly. She didn't care if she lost. She didn't even care that her
mother was cheating. She'd been drinking for over seven hours
and now she just wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere
snowy, at altitude. A certain chalet, perhaps...


'Right, then, I'm going to watch the rest of the film in bed.
At least that way your heavy breathing isn't going to ruin all
the tension...'
Matt grunted sleepily before rolling over slightly to face the
cushions. His breathing sounded laboured, and he was desperate
to open his eyes, but knew his plan was on the verge of
working. His wife bent down and kissed him on the cheek. The
fumes from her all-day drinking session curled the edge of his
nostrils.
'Night. See you up there.'
He waited until he'd heard her climb the stairs, check on her
mother and switch the telly on, before turning over and propping
himself up on his elbow. As he rummaged on the floor
for his book and made himself comfortable he allowed himself
to wonder how Lizzie's day had been. He was far too
young to have screwed up.
chapter

The phone rang from somewhere underneath the papers
strewn across her desk. Carefully, so as not to disturb her
morning's work which, despite its haphazard appearance, was
in fact organised into piles that only she could understand,
Lizzie extricated the receiver just before the call-minder service
kicked in.
'Hello?'
'Lizzie, it's me. I know it's pathetic but I really miss you.
Mum's driving me mad.'
It was Clare, stir-crazy, shouting just a little bit, live and direct
from the maternal home--a chocolate box farmhouse in
a small village just outside Wendover.
'I'll be home in a couple of days. So enjoy having the place
to yourself and listening to all your crap CDs before my return!'
'Two days...' Lizzie was on automatic pilot and still concentrating
on the letter she had been in the middle of answering
when the phone rang. 'Right, OK...' Now focusing on the
voice in her ear, she snapped back to the present just in time
to take an active part in the conversation that Clare had already
started without her. 'What day is today anyway?'
'Sunday...all day. Honestly, you're obviously deep in "Ask
Lizzie" land. I don't want to interrupt the master at work, but
I am--and I can't say this too loudly for fear of being overheard
by one of her ornaments--bored, bored, bored. You
know how much I love my mother, but there are only so many
times you can have the same conversation and pretend that it's
all news to you without wanting to hit someone...'
Lizzie laughed. Clare made her laugh.
'I can't believe I'm only forty-eight minutes away from
Marylebone. It's like a different era out here. I'm beginning to
find this whole relaxing thing quite stressful, and if my mother
suggests I read another one of her Aga sagas I think I'll scream.
There aren't even any proper shops for me to wander round. I
can't feel guilty about spending too much money because there
is absolutely nothing to buy. I'm starting to say damn and
blast. I've found myself poring over catalogues and have even
considered ordering a shirt from one of them even though I
know it will be disgusting.'
'Hang in there. I'm working away at this end, so it's not like
you're missing a great party atmosphere. Putney is deserted. I
think about ninety per cent of our neighbours are chez parents
in the country or skiing. I went to Sainsbury's the other day
and there wasn't even a queue at the checkout.'
'Unbelievable...' Scarily, Clare felt, Lizzie's stories were just
about as exciting as her mother's. She'd have to organise a girlie
night out on the town when she got back before they slid into
middle age without even noticing. Next they'd be comparing detergents
instead of dates. It didn't bear thinking about.
'Any calls?'
'Nope. None for you at all. Sorry.'
'Any for you...?'
Lizzie hesitated. Surely she couldn't be so bored that she
wanted to know how many times her mother and Jonathan had
called over the last week. She was almost ashamed to admit
that it ran into double figures.
'Well, a few.'
Clare sighed. Lizzie was being deliberately obtuse. It might
be tactless, but she was going to have to ask anyway.
Jane Sigaloff

'So you haven't heard from you-know-who?'

Lizzie smiled at Clare's attempt at tact and diplomacy. She
didn't know why substituting his name with the 'you-know
who' thing was supposed to make her think about 'who-he
was' any less. And, thanks to Clare, her mother now knew there
was a 'someone-of-interest' who 'might-have-called' too.
'Matt?' As if she was waiting to hear from a selection of recent
sexual conquests... 'Nope. He's still skiing.'
Clare knew that much. She also knew that there was an effective
telecommunications system which operated throughout
Europe, both on mountains and in valleys. Surely he could
have found a five-minute window between steins of lager?
But she decided to be upbeat for now. 'Right. When's he back?'
'Sixth or seventh I think...'
Clare knew there was no way that Lizzie was capable of
being that blase", but let it pass all the same.
'Oh, and thanks so much for telling Mum about the flowers.'
'Don't
be so over-sensitive. Flowers are a good sign as far
she's concerned. It gives her hope. She only means well.
Strangely enough, she just wants you to be happy.'
'I am happy...' Lizzie made a conscious effort to move the
conversation away from her. She had nothing to report. All
she'd done was work, food-shop and watch a few classic films
on television. 'So how's country life? Been to any gigs at the
village hall?'
'Thankfully I've managed to talk her out of all of them. It's
at times like this I really wish I had a brother or sister to dilute
all this parent-child bollocks. She still thinks I'm fourteen. I
mean, it's ridiculous. I have my own business. I employ people...'

Clare suddenly interrupted her own soliloquy of boredom.
Lizzie was actually only half listening whilst speed-reading a
few letters. She'd resisted the urge to actually type anything
into her computer because she knew only too well how irritating
it could be to hear other people's keyboards in action
when they were supposed to be giving you their undivided attention.
'Look, I'd better go. Mum's just got back from walking the
dog and I'll be in trouble if she thinks I've been gassing to you
the whole time she's been out as we live together for most of
the year. See you on Tuesday... Byeee.'
'Bye.'
So it was Sunday already. Since Boxing Day she'd thrown
herself at her postbag and, thanks to a couple of marathon sessions,
only had a couple more hours to go. But next week
would herald the onslaught of the post-Christmas pre-Valen
tines blues. January to March was Lizzie's busiest time of
year.
She returned her focus to her next letter of the week. In fact
it was less of a letter and more of a stream of consciousness.
Like many of the people who wrote, this woman had more or
less answered her own questions, but Lizzie knew that plenty
of her readers would identify with her.

Dear Lizzie
My marriage is in dire straits.

Lizzie had to concentrate hard to override the 'Money for
Nothing' chorus which had just surfaced from the recesses of
her inbuilt jukebox and smiled to herself idiotically. It was
amazing what these letters could trigger. People's lives in crisis
and she was humming songs from 1985.

I've been married for five years now, but things haven't
really been right for the last six months--well, probably
more like a year. I know you must get hundreds of people
writing to you with this sort of problem, but I read
your column this week for the first time and, whilst I'd
always thought that agony aunts were for teenagers,
manic depressives and people with no friends at all, you
do seem to talk a lot of sense. I have friends, but right now
I don't know who to turn to. Most of them have no idea
how bad things have become, plus there is the added
problem of my husband and I sharing friends who would
feel divided loyalty, and the last thing I want is a series
of lectures. So, I thought I'd see what you think I should
do. I can always ignore your advice if I don't like it. I
don't mean to be rude, but it's a bit like reading your
horoscope, I suppose. You only see what you want to see
when it suits you.
A bit of background for you: I'm in my thirties, a typical
product of the go-get-it-and-while-I'm-at-it-why
can 't-I-have-it-all generation, and while I concede that
I do work very hard and my career is coming first at the
moment, my husband has always understood that side of
me (or I thought he did). I am under a lot of pressure at
the office, but I do genuinely feel that real success is just
around the corner.
My husband's a really nice guy; he's not a cross dresser, or an S&M aficionado or even a difficult bloke...
If only he can just hang in there I feel certain that we can
make things work again, and I honestly believe that things
will quieten down a bit at work when I get to the next
level. The trouble is that he seems to be giving up. I'm
beginning to wonder whether he might be thinking about
having, or even have started, an affair and I don't think
that I could ever forgive him for that. Without being too
graphic (although I know these are the details that
voyeurs who read these pages are holding out for), we 're
not exactly sleeping together much these days. I'm exhausted
and totally immersed in my work, I'm stressed
out, and to be honest having sex is the last thing I feel like
at the moment. Luckily, he's usually in bed asleep or out
when I get home.
For the last few months I've been burying my head in
the sand, just believing that everything will be fine because
we did the marriage thing together, but I know he's
feeling neglected. He's even stopped bothering to talk to
me about things, and seems to be trying to make a point
by working all hours now as if to compete and prove that
he doesn 't need me any more. We used to be really happy.
I just worry that it's too late to do anything about it, so
I'm writing to you. Why...? I don't know. In case you
have a magic wand, I suppose. Anyway, any tips you
have would be very welcome.
Name & Address Withheld

Lizzie found herself composing her response before she'd
even finished reading.

Dear Career Girl

I'm afraid there's no magic solution to your problem,
but the fact that you're so aware that things aren't right
is a huge help. You've hinted at many of the answers in
your letter, but if it helps to have a total stranger point
them out then here goes...
Being a woman in the twenty-first century is almost impossible.
There are too many demands on too little time
and this, coupled with the capabilities that many women
now realise that they have and naturally want to utilise,
causes many conflicts of interest. At least when women
were uneducated they would never have dreamed of doing
half the things that they do today--often not only as well
as, but better than their male counterparts. Sorry, guys
who are reading this, but that's how we feel. Ignorance
must have been bliss. Washing yourself, washing clothes,
reading, sewing, cooking, riding and shagging--even if
you had to wear lace collars, petticoats and skirts all the
time--that was it. There was plenty of time for you to
adore and appreciate your husband when he got back
from earning the family income, and lots of uncluttered
head space for you to think about him and his needs
when he wasn 't around, in comparison to now when he
is just one more ball to juggle.
That said, don't forget this is an intimidating age for
men. They're adapting as fast as they can, but as we
women know only too well they can rarely anticipate our
latest demand and need to be nurtured and loved along
the way. I know how hard it is to combine success at work
with a successful relationship. It is no coincidence that I
have no Mr Lizzie to look after or to look after me. But
if you have found someone special it is worth putting in
the effort. You say that success is just around the corner.
Might it still be there if you step back for a fortnight? I
know it's hard, but try and retain some perspective. At
what cost do you want it?
From where he's standing, there is nothing worse than
feeling rejected. We all want to be loved and all need to
be needed. Women don't have the monopoly on feeling insecure.
He has to believe that he's an important part of
your life and that you 're still interested in him, or yes, he
may well look for someone he feels can be a real soul
mate, or even just someone to massage his flagging ego,
or some other bits of him that need attention... And, more
importantly, however busy you both are, you need to have
a part of your life which is yours together. Just because
you are married it doesn 't mean you can sit back and
count the years to your silver wedding anniversary.
Communicate, Talk to him. Explain how you are feeling--and,
hardest of all, don't be defensive. Admit you are
at fault. Take some responsibility. Telling him that you are
perfect and that he needs to be more understanding and
flexible will not have the desired effect.
Don't wait until it's too late. Make time now, even if
it's only a day. (Lunch in Paris, thanks to Eurostar, can't
do any harm and won't break the bank either.) We all get
sucked into the work whirlpool, but it's only a job and the
world will still be rotating on its axis if you take a few
hours to sort yourself out. You 'we taken the first step;
you've written to me. But it's him you should be talking
to. He may not realise how you're feeling. It may sound
ludicrous, but men specialise in being obtuse.
Before you start, though, please do me a favour. Ask
yourself whether you really love him or whether it's just
the thought of failing that you can't deal with. If you do
love him then make sure he knows. If you 're trying to save your marriage because of what other people might think
then, hard as it may be, save yourself a lot of heartache
and call a solicitor.
Keep me posted. If you want any more information, or
the name of a good restaurant in Paris, please e-mail me
at asklizzie @ outloud. co. uk
Good luck.

Lizzie typed the last sentence with a flourish before scanning
the original letter in and e-mailing them both, along with
her column, to her editor for the next edition. Time for a congratulatory
tea and biscuit break.
She was still thinking about the letter as she waited for the
kettle to boil, disappearing momentarily into a cloud of pore
cleansing steam as it wobbled and rattled its way towards boiling
point. Worrying about her readers was an occupational
hazard, and suspected infidelity was a tricky one. As a child
Lizzie had daydreamed of her big white day on afternoons
when she was bored and apparently had nothing else to do. But
the older she got the less she could visualise herself walking
down any aisle that wasn't in a supermarket or a cinema.
Laughably, she was still waiting to be swept off her feet by
an irresistible man who wouldn't let her down, for days and
nights of passion, a relationship of equals and perfect children.
She wanted the happy and successful first marriage that had
eluded her mother. Like many of the children of divorcees, she
had grown up determined to get it right. Matt had been the first
ray of hope in a long time, and while he'd been doing well be
fore he left, she had secretly been hoping for a slurred Christmas
greeting on her answer-phone. There had been nothing.
Lizzie was in pursuit of the perfect cup of tea when the
phone rang. She rushed to answer it, only the phone wasn't in
its holder on the wall. It was in her study, where she had left
it. Damn. Phone calls were the only proof that her life wasn't
being lived in a vacuum at the moment, and if 1471 couldn't
shed any light on the caller, missing one could lead to hours
of speculation as to who'd phoned and why they hadn't left a
message. Taking the stairs two at a time, Lizzie legged it down
to her study.
She made it just in time. 'Hello? Hello?' Lizzie felt quite
light-headed after her burst of activity. Maybe it was time to
resurrect 'keep fit'--or, at least add 'get fit' to her rapidly
growing list of New Year's Resolutions, but she hated exercising
in January. There were always about eight million
mince-pie eaters swearing the New Year was all about the New
Them. She'd wait until February, when the bulk had given up,
having paid a large enough gym subscription to make themselves
feel better.
'Hello?'
It was a cautious overture. Whoever it was had obviously
been shell-shocked by the frenzy of activity they'd overheard
at Lizzie's end. As long as they were shell-shocked and not
shell-suited that was fine. The former wasn't life threatening.
'Mum?'
'No need to sound so disappointed, darling.'
'I'm not disappointed. I just thought--well, never mind.
How are you...?' Lizzie resisted the urge to add 'today' to the
end of the sentence.
'Have you heard from that chap again?'
'I told you; he's skiing.'
'Yes. Of course he is. Silly me.'
God, between them, Clare and her mother were giving her
a complex. And she didn't need any help.
'How are you, Mum?'
'Oh, you know. Fine. House seems a bit empty after spend
97


ing the week with Alex, Jonathan and the kids, but in some
ways it's good to be home. How about you?'
Since Lizzie's stepfather had died, she knew how hard her
mother found the festive period when for two weeks every year
the minutiae that usually filled her every waking hour ground
to a halt. Annie liked to pretend that she was the busiest,
strongest, all-coping widow London had ever seen, but Lizzie
knew that underneath her cardigans there was far more raw
emotion than she ever revealed. Lizzie berated herself for not
having had the sensitivity to call herself, but if there was one
person who could wind her up in under twenty seconds it was
her mother.
'I've been working really hard. Clare gets back the day after
tomorrow, and I'd really like to be up to date before next week
kicks in and I get even busier.'
'You do work very hard, darling. I know that you have to,
but do try and make time to have a little fun from time to time.
Maybe you and Clare could go out dancing one evening?'
'Mum...'
'I know you think I'm interfering, but I just want the best
for you. Look at Jonathan and Alex. So happy. Such a team.
Jess and Josh are such lovely children. You don't want to end
up on your own.'
'It's not a question of "ending up"...' Her mother was doing
it again. 'If the right person comes along then we'll see. But
look at Clare. She's much happier since she left Joe. She's gone
from strength to strength. Union Jack's is doing really well.'
'Clare's still angry, though. She'll calm down eventually,
and then she'll want to meet someone again.'
'I'm not so sure.'
Her mother chose to ignore her. 'It's all nonsense. She's got
to let someone into her life again one day...'
'She doesn't have to do anything.' Lizzie knew she was
sounding clipped. But in light of the radio silence from the Alps
she was feeling more than a little defensive. 'Not everyone
feels the need to have their 2.4 children. More and more
women find that they are just too busy for all that.'
Annie sighed. 'Darling, having you and Jonathan was the
best thing I ever did. Life doesn't have to stop just because you
have children. Without you two, now my life would be empty.'
Lizzie didn't want to talk about this. Of course she'd thought
about children, but not unless she'd found the perfect relationship
first.
'Mum, you know I love you--very much. But, please. I'm
thirty-two. I am quite capable of running my own life. Believe
me, if I meet the right man I'm not averse to having a relationship.
I'm just not interested in settling for second best.'
Lizzie wanted out. This was supposed to be her tea break, not
a psychoanalysis session. 'Look, I'd better get on. I'll give you
a call later on this evening, OK?'
'Lovely. Great. Just not between eight and ten because I'll
be watching that drama.'
Lizzie sighed as, a little emotionally fragile, she returned to
the kitchen only to discover that--as she had forgotten that the
whole point of a portable phone was that you could walk, talk
and even brew at the same time--her tea was unsalvageable:
a horrendous combination of 'jumble sale stewed' and 'cooling
rapidly'. She threw it away and started again. Life was way
too short to drink horrible cups of tea in your own home.
She was just taking a five-minute research break on the sofa
with a magazine when the phone rang again. What now?
'This is BT call-minder. You. have. one. new--'

Lizzie cut off the automaton and dialled the number for
their message service. It was one of the Laws of Sod. She'd
been in solitary for almost forty-eight hours and two people
had rung at the same time.
'You. have. one. new. message, message, received, today, at.
four, forty, six. peee. emmmm.'
'Hi, Lizzie...it's only me.'
Lizzie could have jumped for joy. It wasn't 'only me'. It was
bloody well him.
'Just calling to say hello.'
He sounded drunk. Or was it just a bad line?
'Hope Christmas Day was fun and that you're enjoying the
whole festive over-eating, over-drinking season. No doubt
you're out partying hard...or watching lots of extra-long fes
tive episodes of soap operas...or both. Well, I'd better get going.
There's no point me just waffling into a machine for hours.
Happy New Year for Thursday night from the mountains. See
you soon.'
Life was so unfair. It was Sunday afternoon. Surely he
should be slaloming down a mountain black run, or whatever
you do on skiing holidays? Yet he calls. Just like that. Rationale
started to creep in. At least he'd rung. Lizzie listened to
the message several times before wondering what exactly she
was listening for and starting to question her sanity. Satisfied
that she had committed it to memory, she deleted it before
Clare found it--and transcribed it for her mother.
Mood improved, Lizzie hummed to herself as she returned
to her study. She loved this first bit of relationships. The excitement
of attraction and not knowing that he clipped his
toenails into the bath and left them there. The time when everything
was endearing, fun and never too much trouble.
Although she would never admit it to Clare or to her mother,
after years of slating women for doing it, Lizzie too had started
to imagine every man she met as the potential father of her chiluin.
Looking at Alex and Jonathan, she did occasionally have
twinges of verdant-edged envy. And she definitely wasn't interested
in the freeze-your-eggs, find-a-sperm-donor approach
to reproduction. Unlike Clare, who'd become a right old feminist
since her divorce, Lizzie did want to try and create a family
unit, and she reckoned she had four years left to find a
playmate and a father for her children before investing in a couple
of cats and embracing the whole spinster lifestyle--reading
glasses, amber necklace, meal for one, cut flowers, padded
slippers et al.
But one brief message and her subconscious was cluttered
with images of her and Matt sitting in thick white bathrobes
at sunny breakfast tables reading papers and sipping orange
juice as their charming, wide-eyed, intelligent, clean and practically
silent pre-school children, complete with juvenile bowl
haircuts and freckles, arrived to join them. Lizzie forced her
self to stop when she started to picture him wandering around
'their' garden in a cardigan because:
1)She didn't have a garden
2)She hated men wearing cardigans
3)He was skiing
4)They had only seen each other twice...ever.
chapter

Making sure that nobody she recognised was in the vicinity,
Rachel picked up the latest edition of Out Loud magazine and,
as she flicked past the various articles, berated herself yet
again for posting the sodding letter in the first place. She must
have been a whole lot iller than she had felt. Practically certifiable.
Scanning
the magazine every Thursday--often sandwiched
between the conveniently outsize pages of Campaign--had
now become a ritual, even though she had no idea how far
ahead of herself this 'Ask Lizzie' person worked. She'd only
popped out of the office to make the most of the last week of
the January sales, yet here she was in Selfridges, a floor away
from the nearest designer collections, just checking.
Finally she found the relevant double-page spread. And
there she was. Well, it was. Her letter. Letter of the frigging
week. Rachel felt instant colour closely followed by instant
pallor hitting her cheeks, and her ice cool fa§ade temporarily
slipped as she instinctively clutched the magazine to her chest
and her body locked. Regaining the use of her limbs several
Jane Sigaloff

seconds later, she put the magazine back as discreetly as she
had picked it up.
After completing a circuit of the department, and lingering
a little in Cards to regain her composure, Rachel returned to
make her purchase. She toyed with the idea of buying all the
copies on the shelf before eschewing the hysterical approach
and instead losing it amongst a few other titles in her basket.
At the till, blase was replaced by bashful, and she could barely
look the salesgirl in the eye. Pathetic behaviour. No one knew
it was her letter or her problem. Yet she left the store convinced
that everyone was giving her sidelong glances. Instant paranoia
had descended.

'Hold all calls. I don't want to be disturbed for the next ten
minutes.'
Kitty looked up guiltily from her frenetic e-mailing and
minimised the dialogue box on her screen instinctively. Rachel
didn't know why she bothered. She knew Kitty was doing
something personal. She never typed that fast when it was
work-related. Nevertheless, Kitty did her best to nod industriously
at Rachel as she swept past, before returning to organising
her social life electronically.
The office door firmly closed, and seated safely at her desk
far away from the searching eyes of assistants, Rachel silently
read and reread first her letter and then the answer. So they used
real letters. A cynic, and well aware of the short-cuts that the
media took when necessary, Rachel had often wondered how
genuine the problems really were. But there was her feverish
letter. In print. For all the world to see. To read. To judge.
Name and Address Withheld. She searched for any clues as
to the identity of the author. Objectively, no one could possibly
know it was from her. She wasn't sure that she even knew
anyone who read Out Loud. Everyone she knew seemed to be
reading Vanity Fair, Vogue and Tattler on the days when they
weren't immersed in the aspirational lifestyle publications of Wallpaper and World of Interiors.
Lizzie was good. Most of her response was state-the-obvi
ous without being patronising. Paris for lunch wasn't out of the
question either. They'd just have to co-ordinate diaries. She
wondered if shopping for the new collections while they were
out there would be allowed? Probably not.
She'd only just started on the third read-through when there
was a knock at her office door. Luckily, in hanging her coat on
the back of the door, she'd obscured the glass panel that usually
enabled visitors to watch her check her make-up for imperfections
before she waved them in. Flinging the magazine on
the coffee table, she opened a new document on her screen before
responding to the follow-up batch of knocking. What was
it with people? No one had a divine right to see her, and since
when had appointments been out of date? Rachel sometimes
wondered what she paid her PA for. Next time she'd have to
be a bit more specific. Do not disturb until the big hand is on
the six...
'Come in.' It was more of a bark than a welcome.
'If this is a bad time I'll come back later. I just wanted a
quick word.'
Her annoyance was rapidly evaporating because Will was
currently standing at the entrance to her office. Boyishly goodlooking--hell,
he was only about twelve...or was it twenty
five? Now she was on the wrong side of thirty it was becoming
increasingly difficult to tell. Still, despite his testosterone
filled, confident and cocksure approach, Rachel had to admit
he was bloody good at his job. Unnervingly, as vile as she could
be, he never appeared to be intimidated, and she had to admit
that their flirtations gave her as much pleasure as anything
these days.
Will headed straight for the couch, placing one state-of-the
art trainer on her coffee table as he lit up. Rachel's office was
one of the few places you could still smoke on the sixth floor,
and he always used it to his advantage. She could sense her
plastic-looking-but-genuinely-living office plant collection
holding its breath. He held the packet out to her.
'No, thanks.'
'Not still pretending to be a non-smoker, are you?'
'I haven't had one since...' Rachel didn't have to think back
104
Jane Sigaloff


very far. 'Well, I haven't had one during the day for over a
month.'
'Or a cigarette.' Will tipped his head back as he exhaled and
his smoke rose up towards the ceiling in a vertical column.
Rachel, as a rule, hated people smoking in her office--especially
when they were junior to her and hadn't bothered to ask
first--but she decided to wait and see what Will had to say before
she started getting testy. She walked round the desk, carefully
resting her bottom on the other side.
'So, what can I do for you?'
'Just wanted to run a few more ideas past you for the campaign...'
Rachel's
afternoon was rapidly improving. She loved their
meetings. Will was brimming with initiative and his enthusiasm
was infectious. Rachel pulled her shoulders back and
thrust her chest out a little further. Power-flirting was one of
her specialist disciplines. She was sure she must be one of the
best in the business.
'I've been brainstorming with the rest of the team over lunch
and I thought it'd be better to catch you in the office face to
face if I could. This way you can tell me what you think and
we can get on with it, or regroup and get our thinking caps back
on. Just be honest. If you think any of the ideas are crap, just
tell me.'
'Believe me, I will.'
'Yeah, well, you're not known for beating round the bush,
are you?'
'No.'
'Right.'
From Will's demeanour, Rachel imagined this ideas session
had involved a few drinks.
'Do you want a coffee?' Rachel was determined to send
Kitty to the Italian place over the road as her penance for letting
Will in early and creating a close call. The coffee there was
legendary, if you could endure the hapless lecherous flirtation
of the staff. It would've been classified as harassment if you
didn't actually choose to go in. 'If you're going to hi-jack the
next half-hour I might as well also use it to top up my caffeine
levels.'
'Sure. A latte would be lovely.'
Rachel popped out to Kitty's desk with her wallet and ordered
two posh coffees and a nice bit of cake. To her horror,
when she got back Will was reading the problem page, which
unfortunately was where Out Loud had fallen open, even after
its earlier flight from her desk to the coffee table. Rachel ordered
herself to play it cool, despite the fact that Will was sitting
there in his baggy trousers, youth personified, still tanned
from his recent snowboarding trip and definitely smiling at
what he was reading. Smiling out loud. A phenomenon which
was more commonly known as laughing. And, to Rachel's despair,
the source of his amusement appeared to be on the page
he was reading. Rachel pretended to join in with his sentiment
in the hope that they could move on...swiftly. She took the initiative.
'Some
of it's amazing, isn't it? It makes you wonder who
writes in to these magazines. I don't know why people bother.'
'I know. I mean, what sort of loser would write to an agony
aunt in the first place?'
Rachel silently ordered herself to relax. It was anonymous.
That was the whole point. Will, unfortunately, hadn't finished
yet.
'Don't people have mates any more? Anyway, I bet the staff
writers make up the letters they reply to, to suit their theme of
the week.'
Rachel was rattled, but she knew she couldn't let on. She
would be the laughing stock of the department if anyone found
out.
'Oh, I don't know. I bet some people write all the time.' She
feigned being offhand not entirely convincingly. Luckily Will
was on a mini-roll, and oblivious to her discomfort.
'Yeah. The same sort of people who enter word search competitions
and watch daytime quiz shows, I bet... I mean, look-- take this one...'
Will was now on his feet and using some of his excess
energy for pacing.
106Jane Sigaloff

'I mean, perlease...check this out...' Will adopted a silly
squeaky voice and read from the open page. '"My husband is
a really nice guy, he's not a cross-dresser, or an S&M aficionado
or even a difficult bloke...if only he can just hang in
there I feel certain that we can make things work again...The
trouble is that he seems to be giving up on me and I am beginning
to wonder whether he might be thinking about having
or even have started an affair..." Of course the bloke's having
an affair. She even admits later on that she's practically stopped
shagging him--and think about it from his point of view. He's
married to someone who reads agony aunt pages and then
writes in. Good luck to him. I'd say he was well out of there.'
Rachel was now sitting at her desk, nervously sliding her
chair through one hundred and eighty degrees and back again,
trying to look entertained by Will's flamboyant display. Having
her letter read aloud to her as if it had been written by a
congenital idiot, by a guy who probably still had wet dreams,
was not what she had planned for the afternoon. Will perched
on the desk right in front of her, and as he scanned the rest of
the page he continued his commentary.
'This woman needs to get out there and get herself a life.
To be fair, though, the reply's not a lot better. I mean, to write....
"I'm afraid there is no magic solution to your problem..." Get
away! You don't need to be a fully qualified aunt of agony to
work that one out, do you?'
Suddenly Rachel had had enough. Will's behaviour was
making her realise how young he really was. His earlier charm
was rapidly dissipating. She resisted the urge to be too defensive
of the anonymous author, although she could feel her ears
going red under her hair at the indignity of it all.
'What you really can't see from the photo is that this Lizzie
woman is seriously fit. I wouldn't mind telling her my problems.
She's that blonde one with the phone-in on City FM. Hot
property, by all accounts. About your sort of age...'
He gave Rachel a suggestive glance and she met his gaze
halfway. She had to hand it to him; the boy had a nerve. His
meaningful look delivered safely, and with the desired flustering
effect, he consciously increased the distance between
them and returned to the sofa, still talking. 'She's one of those
older women with sex appeal that we're aU supposed to be mad
for at the moment. I hope Loaded or Maxim stump up lots of
cash for her to take her kit off. I bet she could solve a lot of
problems with that body. Thinking about it, I bet you could too.
Maybe you should think about becoming an agony aunt?'
Rachel snatched the magazine and then--having isolated
the compliments from his last few sentences and mentally
stashed them away for later--hurled it at him in only partially
mock disgust.
'You, William, are a pathetic male. When you stop living a
life with the complexity of a twelve-year-old's you'll realise
that everyone has problems and that life is not just about getting
as much great sex as you can.'
'It's not...?' Will affected incredulity followed by a hint of
disappointment. In fact he looked so convincing that Rachel
found herself laughing. She was laughing so hard that she suddenly
felt she might be on the verge of crying. Lowering herself
onto the sofa next to Will, she crossed her legs to signal
that their meeting was. now back in session.
Predictably, Will's suggestions were novel, although Rachel
was quick to point out areas that needed refining. All part of
her vital strategy to keep Will's confidence in check and
straight from the latest '101 Ways to Keep Control and the
Upper Hand' manual.
After he'd left she sat back on her sofa and imagined the rewards
flooding in. She could almost visualise her winning
table at the awards dinner. Success was so close that she could
smell it. It was predominantly masculine with a hint of fabric
softener and essence of Malboro Lights--well, at least that was
the musky trail that Will had left in his wake. And he was a
vital part of the campaign team, whether she decided to tell him
or not.
chapter

JLizzie rolled out of bed for the second time in seven hours.
Matt had surprised her with an early lunch, only the food element
had fallen by the wayside as their sexual appetites had
overtaken their feeding instincts. She whistled to herself as she
climbed into the shower. Working at home had definite advantages,
v

Matt was back and seeing Lizzie again. He wasn't sure how
it had happened. No, that was bollocks; he knew exactly how
it had happened. He'd missed her. He'd called with every best
intention of mentioning the wife, wedding thing, but then
Lizzie had asked him round for dinner and before he'd had a
chance to say anything... So it was her fault? No, Matt knew
better than to try and argue that one. But there'd been no improvement
at home. The only thing she'd had for him when
he'd got back was a credit card bill. So now, suddenly, in his
'for richer for poorer' capacity she expected him to subsidise
her designer wardrobe. It wasn't as if she needed more clothes
than her frankly huge salary could provide, and when he'd jokingly
suggested she joined Shopaholics Anonymous she'd had
a massive sense of humour meltdown. When he'd less flippantly
accused her of using him she'd flown into a rage; she'd
screamed, she'd shouted, she'd almost cried, but she hadn't actually
denied it.
He had to leave. He didn't want a wife and a mistress. He
just wanted one woman. Unfortunately not the one he was married
to.
He was beginning to feel like the victim of a huge conspiracy.
He'd wanted his wedding day to be the happiest of his
life--every groom said it was and he'd believed them, but on
reflection he didn't think they could all have been genuine. And
now there was Lizzie. He'd never been as himself with anyone
as he was when they were together. Only she had no idea
who he really was.

Lizzie gave herself a quick blast of cold water in an attempt
to frighten her cellulite into going away and to try and focus
her wandering mind. Matt worked long hours, and often at
weekends, and that coupled with Lizzie's two evenings at the
station, one day at Out Loud and total overload of letters,
e-mails and faxes meant that they really had to make time to
be together. But those moments more than compensated for the
time they were apart. Just knowing he was out there was
enough.
Lizzie balked at her latest pulp fiction cliche' and turned the
mixer tap to freezing, gasping for breath before turning the dial
back in the red direction. She had punished herself enough. So
what if she'd formerly been the leading protagonist of the
you're-better-off-on-your-own-because-the-only-person-you
can-count-on-in-life-is-yourself movement? Now she was beginning
to wonder whether it was because she hadn't met the
right person.
Matt was the soul mate that she hadn't thought existed outside
the scripts of Nora Ephron. It was relaxed and real and
she didn't feel the need to rush things along or make demands
because something was there that she hadn't had before. She
was operating on another plane and, it seemed, fitting more life
into less time.
no

Jane Sigaloff



Clare was now demanding an introduction. Lizzie hadn't exactly
been hiding him away, but their long and erratic hours
made it difficult to organise a mutually convenient time for a
drink. Plus, Lizzie was only too aware that Clare had a generous
helping on her own emotional plate. It was almost exactly
two years since she'd discovered that Joe was cheating--not
the sort of anniversary a young, single-again thirty-something
wanted to trumpet, and definitely not the most tactful time for
Lizzie to introduce her to Mr New Love Interest. In a no-time
like-the-present flourish Lizzie decided to organise a night
out. She'd been doing a lot of working and seeing Matt and
not enough being there for her best friend. Towelling herself
dry, she decided to rectify the situation right away.
The number rang for ages before it was answered.
'Union Jack's.'
The phone must have been somewhere between the cutlery
drawer and the dishwasher. The hubbub of busy restaurant, a
total contrast to the morgue atmosphere that Lizzie had got
used to working in at home, lizzie, suddenly wished she hadn't
called, but hanging up now would just have been juvenile. She
dug out her most important voice. 'Clare Williamson, please.'
'One minute.' The phone answerer put the receiver down
next to the cappuccino machine. Lizzie's ears had been filled
with the sound of coffee grinding and milk frothing--which
didn't sound unlike milk being strangled--for a little too long
before the phone was picked up.
'Clare Williamson.'
'Hi. Only me!'
'Liz. Hi. Sorry--not a great time. Are you at home?'
'Yup.'
'Everything OK?
'Yup.'
'Can you call me a bit later...?'
'Yup.'
'Say...at about, um...three-thirty?'
'Sure.'
Lizzie liked to vary her single syllable responses.
'Great.'
It was a quick-fire phone call, and by 3:33 p.m. Lizzie hadn't
done much except rationalise that Clare being busy didn't
mean that she didn't love her any less and called her back. This
time Clare answered herself, sounding a lot calmer if a little
monosyllabic. To compensate, Lizzie injected a little more
energy than normal into her speaking voice in the hope that
some of the excess might rub off on Clare.
'Ms Williamson, this is your very own social secretary
speaking. Sorry to have bothered you in the middle of everything.
I always forget that the times of day when everyone else
has time to talk are when you are at your busiest.'

'God, Lizzie, you're going have to be a bit less chirpy. I
don't think I can cope with your new euphoric attitude to life
and love much longer.'
Ouch. Lizzie detected a raw nerve and resumed her less
playful former self. The excess energy ploy had backfired.
Probably also not a good time to tell Clare that Matt had called
round for a quickie at lunchtime. This was supposed to be
about cheering Clare up.
'Precisely what I was calling about, actually. Thought it
was high time you and I had a flat outing to drink champagne
in glamorous places while setting the world to rights--and to
remind you how much better off you are without that two-timing
double-crossing shit of an ex-husband of yours.'

Clare laughed despite herself. This time of year was always
hard for her, and Lizzie was a good mate. Her tone softened.
'Thanks, Liz, that would be lovely. We haven't had a good
night out on the town together in ages. Let me just look at the
roster.'
There was a slight pause while Clare located the relevant
sheet of paper. 'Blimey. This week's far too hectic... How
about next Tuesday...?'
'I'll be in the studio, answering calls and playing CDs.'
'Ah, yes, of course...' She must be distracted. Mind you,
Lizzie had called her in the midst of the lunchtime rush earlier.
Apparently they could be just as self-centred as each other.
'Actually, how about Monday?'
'Perfect. Leave it to me.'
Lizzie stopped herself from ringing Matt to see if he was
free then. Not only was it less than two hours since she'd seen
him last, but she didn't want Clare to feel that she'd sabotaged
the girlie night she had just promised her. Instead Lizzie channelled
some of her nervous energy into tackling the next pile
of letters and blasted herself into action with a classical piano
concerto on CD at full volume.
Moments later she was typing furiously, captured by the
pace and the rhythm of the piece, her hands racing across the
keyboard in subconscious imitation of a great composer at
work. As the tempo increased, so did her productivity. Soon
she was totally immersed in a world of heartache, confession
and premature ejaculation.

i
chapter

bo, when am I going to meet him, then?'
'Who...? Matt?'
'No, Robinson Crusoe, Ronald McDonald... Of course Mr
Matt. Mr Wonderful. Mr Smile on Your Face. Mr Good News.
You haven't looked this radiant for years. He's taken ten years
off you...'
'Ten years...?' Clare had such a way with words. Lizzie
hadn't thought she looked that different from her twenty-two
year-old incarnation anyway. She stared into her glass, hoping
for a glimpse of her reflection. Unbelievable to think she'd
now reached an age where you could take away ten years and
she'd still be an adult. Lizzie took an extra-large sip to harden
her resolve. Maybe it was time to upgrade to anti-ageing eye
cream after all. And to think that she had dismissed it as pure
sales pitch when they had tried to sell her some at the Clarins
counter the other day.
'Well, maybe not ten years...but certainly two.'
That was much more like it. Lizzie raised her glass to no
one in particular in celebration of her relative youth.
'You haven't looked this happy since you were with Rob.'
Lizzie grimaced. Rob was a long time ago. He'd been totally
the wrong person for her, even if she'd managed to pretend
that he was perfect for nearly six months. His idea of
romance was insisting on scaring the life out of her by whisking
her all over Great Britain on his motorcycle at weekends.
"That wasn't happy; that was windburn!'
They both laughed. Rob had even bought her a full set of
leathers and a helmet. A total contrast to the perfectly faded
jeans and huggable blue jumper that he'd been wearing to the
dinner party where they'd met. There'd been no hint that he
was a motorcycle nut. No greasy nail beds, no Harley Davidson
accessories, not a Moto Guzzi key fob in sight.
'Well, at least he was about twenty years younger than...
what was he called...?'
Lizzie laughed at the collection of totally unsuitable skeletons
hanging in her closet.
'Lawrence...and he was only fourteen years older than me,'
Lizzie added a little defensively. So she had been going
through her find-a-less-dysfunctional-than-my-own-biologi
cal-father-figure-and-then-sleep-with-him crisis? He hadn't
exactly been Tom Selleck to look at either. A pity, Lizzie
mused. A pity also that Clare seemed to have a clearer recollection
of Lizzie's exes than she had, and appeared to take such
delight in listing them after a few drinks. She appeared to be
on a roll.
'So when do I get to meet Lover Boy? Why don't you get
him to join us for a quick glass of champagne?'
Lizzie stalled. It would be preferable to them meeting sober
at the flat first thing one morning when Clare would predictably
ask far too many questions in the not traditionally welcoming
style of a Gestapo officer. But Clare could be a bit of
a loose canon when she was under the influence. Matt didn't
need to know about Rob, Lawrence, or indeed any of the others.
'He might not be free...'
'And then again... Honestly, Liz, you are the end sometimes.'
Clare
raised her right eyebrow at Lizzie. She was going to
have to do better than that if she wanted to keep him under
wraps. Lizzie knew that attempting to dodge the inevitable was
pointless. Once Clare had made up her mind, it was only a matter
of time before she got what she wanted.
'Give him a call. If he's in the vicinity he might like to pop
in. I mean, you haven't seen each other for--what?--two, no,
more like three days now... Poor love...'
Lizzie rummaged in her bag. 'Damn. I didn't bring my
phone.'
'Here, use mine...and don't even pretend that you can't remember
his number. It must be etched in your memory by
now.'
Lizzie had to climb lots of stairs before she was close
enough to ground level to get a signal. He answered straight
away. Why, when you wouldn't mind getting an answer-phone,
does it never happen?
'Matt?'
'Hi, Liz.'
'Is now a good time?'
'Well, it depends on how you look at it. It's not a great time
in that it's after nine and I'm still in the office, desperately trying
to focus on my computer screen so I can type up a few proposals
for an 8:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow, but it's a fantastic
time in that I'm dying to be distracted. Everything OK with
you? Aren't you and Clare supposed to be slagging off men
together right now?'
'We are--we were--well...not all men... Anyway, we were
just chatting and we--well, Clare--well, we thought it'd be
much more fun to slag off men if we had at least one representative
popping in for a quick drink to add more fuel to our
fire. I mean it's all very well saying that all men are bastards
hypothetically...but you can't beat a real-life example.'
Matt was totally silent. Not a laugh, nothing...and Lizzie had
thought that this was one of her more mildly amusing moments.
She carried on regardless.
'Hey, I'm only kidding. Look, we're at the Atlantic Bar and Clare would really like to meet you, so I thought I'd give you
a call to see if you fancied a quick drink with us before we
move on to our next venue.'
More silence. Lizzie wondered if the signal had gone.
Maybe she'd been chatting away to herself for the last few minutes?
She moved the phone away from her ear. Just far enough
to be able to see the screen but not too far just in case Matt was
there and about to say something. All the bars were illuminated
defiantly. They were still connected.
'Hello? Hello? Matt? Are you still there?'
It wasn't that Matt didn't want to meet Clare. He just wanted
to make the right impression. In which case, he supposed it was
far better to be introduced in a busy bar over a drink than in
their flat in his boxers. Besides, he loved seeing Lizzie when
she'd had a couple. Alcohol softened her potentially hard professional
edges. 'Hello? Hello? Yes, I'm here.'
'Can you hear me?'
' I can now. You were breaking up a bit earlier.' It wasn't altogether
true. But blaming technology was a wonderfully useful
device at times.
'So? Don't worry if you can't, but I'd better get back to
Clare before she passes out on the table or orders us something
vintagely expensive.'
'OK, I'll pop in for a quick glass of something. But don't
let me stay long. I've got to come back here...and I don't want
to be accused of hijacking your evening or spoiling your fun.'
'Great...' Perfect. 'We're at a table in the corner just to the...
um...' Lizzie waggled a wrist for just long enough to ascertain
which one was left and which was right. She had patently imbibed
more champagne than she had realised, and the first
thing to go was her sense of direction.' ...left...to the left of the
bar--looking gorgeous, of course. Don't be long. It would
probably be to your advantage if you turned up while I can still
focus.'
Lizzie hurried back to the table via the powder, eyeliner and
lipgloss room to tell Clare to brace herself. More excited than
apprehensive, Lizzie felt sure she would approve.

Matt strolled in, doing his utmost to keep his nerve. Granted,
it would be a cruel coincidence if someone spotted him, but
this place was sufficiently exclusive and expensive for her and
117


her agency cronies to consider it one of their haunts. To his relief
he spotted Lizzie and Clare almost immediately and, picking
the chair with its back to the room, kissed both women
hello. It looked innocent enough. He was unlikely to be having
an affair with two women sitting at the same table.
Lizzie was positively smouldering. But, as he kept reminding
himself, he'd got her under false pretences. On the sly. And
he was stolen goods. For once this wasn't an appropriate time
for a flash of honesty. Tonight was about Clare. He knew how
close they were, and thanks to Lizzie's candour he also knew
her husband had cheated on her. Clare's stare was friendly but
steely. He was well aware that his perception might be tainted
with a touch of paranoia in light of his own marital status, but
right now he was under assessment, with a verbal dissection
sure to ensue as soon as he upped and left.
'So, have you two put the world to rights yet? Would a man
free Britain be a better place?'
Clare watched Matt and Lizzie exchange an affectionate
grin and took a big sip of her drink. To think it had been her
suggestion that he came along. Still, at least she knew that he
wasn't a figment of Lizzie's fertile imagination. He seemed
real enough. Quite boyish. A nice smile. And, from the way
he kept looking across to Lizzie, obviously smitten. She decided
to break up the little gazeathon which seemed to be in
full swing opposite her before she turned green and prickly.
'So, Matt, a copywriter...'
He was quick to give Clare his undivided attention, and
gave Lizzie's hand an affectionate squeeze under the table. 'For
my sins. I gather Union Jack's is your second home. We'll have
to come along one evening. Lizzie says it's fantastic and I've
never been.' Matt was much happier keeping the conversation
away from his personal life.
After a perfectly polite adult we-don't-know-each-oth
er-very-well-but-are-making-a-concerted-effort conversation
about the restaurant, they moved on to the equally formal topic
of house prices in Notting Hill which, according to the papers
that morning, were now more expensive than parts of neigh
bouring Kensington. Matt should have seen the next series of
questions coming.
'So, where's your place, Matt? I assume you don't actually
live in the office between trips to Putney?'
'Chiswick. Well, more like Turnham Green, really. Do you
know it?'
Clare shook her head.
'It's a lovely part of the world. One of London's best-kept
secrets. Somehow it's managed to retain a villagey feel--
there's still a local butcher, fishmonger, a flower stall by the
station, that sort of thing. On the downside you can't move on
Saturdays for designer couples with designer babies in three
wheeled all-terrain buggies, but the pros outweigh the cons.'
'So you like it, then?' Clare had gone for sarcasm. The lowest
form of wit, maybe, but the most appropriate, she felt, in
light of the eulogy to the W4 idyll that had just poured out of
Mart's mouth.
Matt smiled wryly to acknowledge the rosy picture he'd just
painted of an urban village. An oxymoron--unless, apparently,
you lived in Turnham Green or the Central Perk neighbourhood,
of course.
'Do you own or rent?'
'Own. It's the best investment I think I've ever made... Not
difficult, though, considering I am the sort of bloke who struggles
to save more than a couple of pounds. You two rent, don't
you?' Matt knew the answer, but Lizzie was too pissed to pull
him up on it, and he figured it was safer to keep the conversation
to familiar, well-trodden, non-controversial subjects.
'Yup. We know we're throwing our money away, don't we,
Liz?'Alcohol seemed to have dissolved Lizzie's subtlety, and
she nodded without taking her eyes off Matt, but at least she
was still listening--which, Clare supposed, was something.
'The thing is we're both slightly allergic to the idea of putting
down permanent roots in one place... We're both the product
of one disappointment too many, I think.'
The current disappointment drained his glass and quickly
refilled it. He wished he'd come clean before meeting Clare.
Now he was simply lying to one more person, and he had a
sneaking suspicion that she wouldn't be able to see his side of
things; he wasn't sure that he could blame her.
Lizzie joined in.
'I think we just like to kid ourselves that we're free spirits...you
know, that we could hypothetically walk out of the
door tomorrow and become diving instructors in Australia if
the mood took us. The fact that we've barely had time for a
holiday in the last couple of years is neither here nor there. We
know it's illogical...'
Free spirit..yeahright Only spelt s.c.axe.Ao.f.c.ommi.tm.e.n.t.o.f.
l.o.si Ji.g.c.o.n.txolaai.d.b.e.i ji.gii.uxt. And then of course there was
her genuine mortgage phobia. Owing someone in excess of 200,000 pounds
was just something her junior savers account hadn't prepared her for.
'I know our rent would more than cover equivalent mortgage
repayments...'
Lizzie's mental arithmetic had always been her weakest
link, and she hesitated for a moment while she checked with
the less pissed part of her brain that she was still making sense.
'But we've just found that renting has worked better for us.
And--this always sounds ridiculous--but we really haven't
had the time to look for somewhere.'
Clare nodded sagely. 'We'd have to take the girls' approach
and suss out all the alternatives before deciding. And it's not
like you can get a receipt and take a flat back if you don't like
it. Plus, I can't bear to think that there is always the chance that
it will be worth less in five years' time...'
'Highly unlikely in London. But your place is lovely. I can
see why you're both happy to stay there for now.'
Lizzie was pleased that Clare and Matt were ostensibly
chatting away, even if they had picked a rather grown-up subject.
The combined presence of her lover and best friend was
causing her to feel quite sentimental about life.
'So, Matt, when do I get to come back to Chiswick to play?'
It was an innocent enough question.

'It's time I got to check out your CD collection, the number
of bottles in your bathroom, any embarrassing photos of
you in school uniform or with exes squirrelled away or lurking
on old pinboards...'
120
Jane Sigaloff


Lizzie was quite curious in some ways, but then again she
liked the fact that he was happy to come to hers. As he put it,
all he needed was a clean pair of boxers and a toothbrush,
whereas she needed a small suitcase of cleansing, toning, moisturising
and scented lotions and potions, plus a selection of
clothes and shoes for the following day. It was a valid point.
Matt tried to change the subject. He didn't know if he was
imagining things, but he was sure he could feel a frost rolling
in from Clare's end of the table.
Lizzie had now drunk approaching a whole bottle of champagne
on her own, and wasn't about to let this go. She wanted
to see him in his own place. She'd put money on it being very
tastefully kitted out, with a huge television, several remote controls
and as many channels--and adverts--as money could
buy. Making sure she'd caught Matt's eye, she leant across to
Clare and announced in a stage whisper, 'I don't think he
wants me to go round there. To be completely honest, I think
he's keeping me a secret from his wife.'
It was meant to be a joke. You know the sort of comment.
Light-hearted, offhand, flippant, and Lizzie even winked at
Matt as she delivered it. Only he was no longer smiling. Her
world ground to a juddering halt as her heart climbed into her
mouth.
Clare seized the moment to tactfully disappear to the loo and
Lizzie wished that she'd taken her with her. For some reason
it was taking her a few moments to comprehend what was happening,
although it would have been quite clear to the average
five-year-old. Her tear ducts obviously worked faster than her
brain. They were full to the brim, and tears were now spilling
onto her cheeks. To Lizzie's horror she could see that his eyes
were moist too, but compassion was rapidly being replaced
with a cocktail of self-preservation, anger and the humiliation
of Clare being there to witness the whole thing. More fodder
for the Williamson vitriol on married men,
'You're not, are you? Are you?'
Lizzie tried to keep her voice steady and calm. After all, they
were paying customers in the West End, not punters at the
Queen Vic, plus Lizzie needed to hold on to her self-respect
even if she suspected that it was only going to be a matter of
seconds before maximum strength humiliation kicked in.
Lizzie had only clung to the notion that Matt might have been
winding her up for as long as it took to say it out loud. His face
said it all. No one was that good an actor.
'God, Liz. I should have told you the evening we met, but
for some reason I couldn't. I kept meaning to, and then somehow
we seemed more important that it did. The truth is, yes, I
am married, but I haven't been a part of my relationship for
nearly a year. I admit it was easier to stay at first. But I've got
to leave. I am going to leave. I promise...'
Matt could hear his voice getting higher and higher pitched.
He took a deep breath before continuing at a more masculine,
less hysterical level.
'I don't think I'd ever be able to forgive myself if I've fucked
up our chances. I've never met anyone like you before...'
He stole a glance. She was just staring at the table. As if
looking him in the eye might cause her to suddenly turn to
stone.
'Believe me, every time I meant to tell you something
cropped up or the moment passed. Only now--and I wouldn't
blame you, because I'm not liking myself at all right now--in
fact you probably hate me--and...' Matt shook his head. 'How
did it all become so complicated? Liz? Lizzie? Please look at
me...'
Lizzie looked up, her eyes glassy. This was all his fault. He
cupped her crestfallen face in his hands. She was too traumatised
to move away.
'Lizzie, we've got something so special. We both know that.
I know this is a huge shock for you...'
Lizzie shook her head. He really had no idea.
'But really it's just a technicality. My marriage has been over
for months. And I promise I'll leave. I know that it's one of
the oldest cliches, even from the King of Cliche himself, but
this is me and you we're talking about, and if you feel for me
even half of what I feel for you, you'll know that I mean what
I'm saying. It wasn't a calculated deception, I swear.'
However often she dabbed at her eyes the water just kept

j
122Jane Sigaloff

on dripping down her cheeks. Lizzie had no idea how she felt.
She knew she probably should have been screaming or shouting,
or at the very least throwing her drink at him, but she
couldn't say, do or feel anything. Paralysed from the brain
down. She was in total shock.
'God, Clare will hate me after what she's been through.'
Matt was thinking aloud. A mistake. 'I'd love to take you back
to your flat, run you a bath, make you a cup of tea and try to
explain...'
'But your wife wouldn't like it? Oh, please, Matt. I'm not
that stupid.' Lizzie shook her head as the truth slowly sank in.
'But maybe I am? And to think I thought you were different--
special, even.' Her voice petered out. She was more or less talking
to herself.
'I am. I will be. I'll show you. I promise....' Matt looked into
Lizzie's eyes but her gaze was empty, as if he could look
straight through her. 'I'm so very sorry. This wasn't how I
wanted to tell you, and I did want to tell you. And now I've ruined
your evening. If it's any consolation I think I've just ruined
my life.' Matt tried to smile. It didn't work. 'Liz, I want
to be with you. I know it's early days, but I'm completely in
love with you. You're such a special person.'
On any other occasion Lizzie would have been cartwheeling
at the use of the L word so early on--and not in an in-bed
together situation--but she wasn't sure how she was going to
deal with this one. She closed her eyes for a split second and
willed it all to be a terrible nightmare, but when she opened
them again she was still there and so was he. She believed him.
And, while she didn't want to become the founder member of
Doormats Anonymous, she knew that she wanted to give him
a chance to explain. But Lizzie knew what Clare would say--
plus, it was hardly right that an agony aunt should be sleeping
with someone else's husband. Lizzie groaned. Aloud or in her
head? Judging from the look on Mart's face it had definitely
been out loud.
'I'll call you tomorrow...' Matt leant across and, trembling,
kissed her cheek tenderly before getting to his feet. He could
sense Clare hovering at the bar and could feel the daggers
aligning themselves with their target.
Maintaining his composure until he reached a suitably dark
alleyway, he finally allowed his face to crumple as his eyes
filled with tears of his own, their presence giving him a fittingly
distorted view of everything. He'd thought he'd be relieved that
it was all out in the open. Instead he felt frustratingly powerless.
Consumed by a soul-searching ache that painkillers have
never been developed to treat. Matt stopped at an off-licence
on his way back to the office. He didn't think he could face
the rest of his life--well, certainly not the remainder of the
evening--sober.

Clare embraced her best friend, who was currently teetering
on the brink of total adversity. Safe in the knowledge that
she no longer had to cope alone, Lizzie dissolved into Clare's
shoulder.
'Come on...there, there... Go on...have a good cry...'
'He's married.'
'I gathered. The shit.' Clare was livid.

'He said that it's been over for months. But I had no idea. I
feel so stupid.' Lizzie's voice was cracked.
'I know, sweetie. You weren't to know. I can't believe he
even tried the "I'll leave her" line. What an insult to your intelligence...'
Typically,
Clare wasn't trying to be objective. In her world
men were guilty until proven innocent, and certainly not entitled
to a fair trial. And Mr Matt had just sent himself to the electric
chair.
'Everyone knows that's the oldest line in the book. If you
look hard enough it's probably even in the Bible, in one of the
Old Testament stories--just been lost in the translation over
the years or surreptitiously removed by a male editor.'
'But I should have known...'
lizzie, was still sobbing. She knew that she really wasn't
handling this at all well. Still, everyone had to fall apart sometimes.
'I
really thought we had something so special...' There was
a moment's gap while Lizzie's innate positivity did its best to
push to the surface. 'Maybe it will all work out. He said he
loved me.'
Uncharitable as it sounded, Clare hoped that Lizzie wasn't
dribbling onto her new 'dry clean only' top. 'Liz, don't be so
bloody ridiculous. He lied to you about having a wife, so why
the fuck shouldn't he lie about leaving her too?'
'I'd like a chance to hear what he's got to say. I just want to
talk to him.'
'But his wife might answer the phone.' Clare instantly regretted
her vituperative jibe. Lizzie was back to square one and
it was her fault. Clare managed a more softly-softly approach
and opted for the say less, hug more option until they'd got a
cab home.

Lizzie was slumped on the sofa, staring, an untouched G&T
tightly gripped in her hand. Clare sat down next to her and
raised her glass. 'A toast. Because all men are bastards and controlled
by their dicks...'
Lizzie remained motionless. Clare willed her to lift her
glass. Just a little. She'd even settle for a lifting of the corners-- make that just one corner--of her mouth. But there was no activity
from the shell of a person next to her. Not a twitch of a
muscle. It was going to be a long night.
Clare took a sip and waited. She was halfway through an
article in the Radio Times before Lizzie started speaking. Her
gaze was now fixed on a point way ahead in the distance, a
good few miles on the other side of the wall.
'I know you'll think this is ridiculous. But what if what he
said was true? What if his marriage is a sham? If he is going
to leave? What then?'
'Liz, if you hadn't made your silly joke earlier you can bet
that you'd still be none the wiser. I'm sorry. Really I am. I know
how disappointed you must be. I know you were excited and
happy and...'
Lizzie's face crumpled again as she recalled just how happy
she'd been only hours earlier.
'But I'm afraid that's it. It's got to be over. Where's your
pride? You're worth far more than he's bargained for. Either
he's lying, and his marriage is fine, or he's so weak that he can't
act on his feelings and do the decent thing--in which case you
don't want him anyway...'
Lizzie nodded in an attempt to convince herself. Of course
Clare was right. But it didn't make it any easier.
'If it's any consolation, his wife will be feeling worse than
you are when he tells her. If he tells her, that is. Married men
should have to have wedding rings tattooed onto their third fingers
by law.'
'He's probably never worn a ring. Lots of men don't these
days. Some men just don't like wearing jewellery.'
'Some men just don't like being faithful. It's the thrill of the
chase. It's knowing that they're not playing by the rules.'
'But Matt's not like that. He's different.' A lone tear rolled
down Lizzie's cheek. Neither Julia Roberts nor Meg Ryan
could have produced a more poignant one.
Clare was becoming increasingly exasperated at Lizzie's apparent
inability to see the facts. Of course he wasn't different.
'Liz, go and get some sleep. I bet this will all look different in
daylight.'
Lizzie didn't so much fall asleep as pass out in between prolonged
periods of snivelling into her fortuitously absorbent pillow.
When
she finally woke, the morning after the night before,
for a split second she felt happy--but then she remembered.
She should have realised something was up. Things had been
going too well. January was traditionally the worst month of
the year for morale, men and money. Now it was living up to
its reputation. She wished she could just hibernate for a couple
of months and re-emerge when time had done its healing
thing. She didn't see why she had to be awake throughout the
process.
Feelings aside, she knew she had to put a stop to it. She was
supposed to help people with their problems, not cause more,
and if she turned a blind eye she'd be endorsing a situation that
she knew couldn't work. She had to bury her impetuous nature
and think about how seeing more of him could jeopardise
the real world around her. The one she had to live in every day.
And if he'd lied so convincingly about something as big as this,
logically how could she believe a word he said?
If she kept seeing him--well, that would make her a mistress.
Unofficially she was one already. Certainly not something
she had ever aspired to be. She didn't want to put herself
in the same bracket as those red-taloned women you saw on
trashy documentaries, eulogising about the joys of being wined
and dined, flown all over the world and bought expensive jewellery
without having to tidy up. Lizzie wanted to come first.
Lizzie wanted real love. Love with washing and ironing and
cooking and maybe even children. Warts and all.
She had no idea what time it was when the phone broke into
her reverie. Her curtains were still drawn and it sounded as if
it was pouring with rain outside. Marvellous. Gloomy weather
had arrived to cement her depression. Couldn't just one thing
go her way?
She thought about just leaving it ringing, but couldn't--just
in case whoever it was didn't leave a message, which would
be even worse than the phone not having rung at all.
'Hello?' It was listless, a traditional courtesy greeting but
with no feeling.
There was silence at the other end.
'Hello?'
This time she was greeted by an equally small, flat voice.
'Liz? It's me. I'm so so very, very sorry.'
Damn cordless phones. There wasn't even anything to strangle
herself with if things got worse.
Lizzie knew that she should have refused to speak to him,
but she was pleased that he had called. Or at least at the moment
she thought she was.
'Liz...are you still there?'
'Yup. What time is it?'
'Eleven-fifteen...are you still in bed?'
Lizzie stretched out under the duvet to prove to herself that
she was still a complete human being and not just a head on
the pillow before springing back into the foetal position.
'Mmm. Didn't seem to be much point in getting up today.'
Lizzie knew she shouldn't have said that. It exposed her. It
told him she cared. But she did and, hey, it couldn't get any
worse than last night. In for a penny, in for a pound. If he was
going to break her heart he might as well be allowed to stamp
on it good and hard a few more times before leaving her to recover.
'I
should've told you that very first night in the taxi, but I really wanted to see you again. I was selfish. I was scared.
Please, meet me for lunch. I've been going over everything
again and again in my head. I'd rehearsed telling you about a
hundred times but then last night I was caught off guard and
none of it really came out right.'
Lizzie felt oddly calm listening to his voice. She wished it
could be yesterday morning again, but things had changed irrevocably,
hadn't they? All these hypothetical questions and
only answers she didn't want to hear. It was just no good.
'Matt, I'm sorry, but I don't think lunch is a good idea. It's
got to be over. For lots of reasons.'
Clare would have patted her on the back, but Lizzie didn't
feel relieved, or that she had the upper hand. She just felt very
sad. She sank another millimetre into her pillow even though
she'd thought she was as low as she could go already.
'Lizzie, I know you have to say that for your pride, for your
self-esteem... I've treated you appallingly, and I know you'll
need time to deal with this, but I hope that eventually you might
be able to forgive me...'
i There was a pause. Matt was waiting for Lizzie to say something.
Anything. But she couldn't get the words out. In the absence
of any input, Matt decided to continue. If she wasn't
going to meet him for lunch this might be the only chance he
got to say it. On balance he knew that he deserved everything
he was getting, and more.
'You must've had letters from people like me in the past.
Men who get stuck in a loveless marriage because it's easier
to stay there than to rock the boat. I know that doesn't make
me look very good, and I know I should have just left. She's
changed. She's no longer the person I vowed to love and to
honour and I am going to leave. I know you and I haven't been
seeing each other for long, but I really believe we're worth
fighting for. When I didn't tell you at the outset it was because
somehow I just couldn't, even though I wanted to. I didn't want
to risk what we had, what we could have... I'm just asking for
another chance. I hope in time I'll be able to convince you to
forgive me.'
His speech had all the hallmarks of a classic romantic
tragedy. She desperately wanted to believe him, but the more
she thought about him being married to a person, to a real live
woman with a name, a personality and a body, who shared half
his bed and half his wardrobe, the harder it became. She
wanted to know if they still slept together. If they did, was it
good? Did she go skiing too? She wanted to know, and then
she didn't. Maybe she was only one of several mistresses--a
veritable wifelet. He was right; she had read about this scenario
so many times. She had dealt with it during phone-ins and she
knew that it was a situation that could only end in tears. She
might not have worn them on her sleeve, or rammed them
down the throats of her readers, but she had morals and principles.
Matt
was waiting for an answer.
He would have got one, only Lizzie couldn't speak. She
couldn't risk the pain rising up and escaping noisily while he
was listening. So much for control.
Meanwhile she was going through the whole spectrum of
emotions. Upset. Angry. With him. With herself for not sensing
anything earlier. Disappointed. Disbelieving. Exhausted.
As far as a response went, all she could manage was a suppressed
wail-cum-snort followed by a deeply unpleasant sniff.
'Mmmmhmmm.'
It was pathetic. Lizzie wished she could be stronger; she
would have loved to be brusque at this moment--offhand,
even. But she couldn't manage it.
'Listen, Liz. I can't bear to hear you so upset.' What on earth
had he done? The woman he loved in tears. His fault.
'I'm fine...' A pause for a big blink and a deep breath to try
and convince herself that she was indeed fine.
'Sure you are. If you're fine, the Pope's Jewish.'

I
'Don't worry about me. I'll bounce back.' Lizzie was sure
that she would. Eventually. Probably some time after she'd
bounced into a couple of bottles.
'Look, you don't have to handle this all by yourself. Please
meet me. Just for lunch. No funny business. Just a chat. We'll
go somewhere quiet, I promise.'
'Not today.' No way could Lizzie contemplate lunch on a
day when she had to go through the whole studio thing later
and actually sit in a room with other human beings.
'Tomorrow?'
'OK...'
'Great. I'll call you in the morning with a plan. Thanks, Liz.
I love you.'
Lizzie felt oddly comforted. She only hoped Clare would
be out. She couldn't possibly tell the woman who believed all
mistresses should be burnt at the stake that she'd agreed to
lunch. But surely one of the perks of getting older was the prerogative
to make her own mistakes?
Unbefuckinglievable. Who on earth would pay fifty pounds
to go running, in winter, in a public park, in London, in their
lunch hour, with someone fitter, therefore preventing the walking-most-of-the-way
tactic? Yet that was what Gareth, personal
trainer to the stars, had just suggested. His client list
might resemble the contents page of Hello! magazine, but
surely you could buy a flat stomach in the twenty-first century
without having to sacrifice your knee joints and self-respect
in the process?
It took Rachel a full hour of careful preening to look this
good when she left the house every morning, and she wasn't
about to risk it all with hours of the day remaining. Will might
have blagged her the introductory assessment, but that was as
far as this particular whim was going. Yet, despite the ludicrous
turn her day had taken only moments ago, Rachel was in high
spirits.
The campaign was finally snowballing and she could almost
see her name in lights--well, she could when she removed her
designer shades. Her latest present to herself was Justin time
to shield her from those winter rays, late enough to already be
p

Name & Address Withheld
131


this summer's hottest shape, but early enough to say 'original'
as all the high street copycats were still a good month away.
They were currently on the top of her head, assuming the role
of designer halo-cum-alice-band.
All was still quiet on the personal front, but at least Valentine's
Day was round the comer and for the first time in years
she'd decided to arrange a night out. She still hadn't confessed
to anyone that she'd consulted an agony aunt. In all honesty
she'd probably be amazed for the rest of her life that she'd not
only written a letter but sent it in to a magazine. The only upshot
was her new e-mail buddy. Dear Lizzie had become a useful
sounding board and a fresh breath of non-agency, non
advertising air. Their electronic note-passing did a good job of
reminding her to make an effort on the days when it felt as if
her personal life was slipping through her fingers. Better still,
Lizzie had no agenda. She wasn't angling for promotion or taking
sides; she was a bona ride bullshit-free zone. If this was
just Lizzie doing her job, she was amazingly good at it.
Rachel was indulging in a quick game of Solitaire on her
computer when the whirlwind of energy and creativity that was
making her life a whole lot more bearable at the moment burst
through the door.
'Morning, Rach.'
Will bounced on to her sofa and slurped at the froth on his
cappuccino while waiting for a suitable break in her concentration.
Fortunately his most recent attempt to give up smoking
still seemed to be in full swing, and Rachel was spared a
lingering blue cloud of smoke in her office. Through the strategic
positioning of office furniture Rachel had ensured that no
one else could see her computer screen, so Will was currently
unaware that the delay was due to a pressing tactical decision:
should she move the King of Spades to the presently empty
column or deal more cards and see whether the King of Hearts
or King of Diamonds might still be in the pack? What she
really needed was a red king.
'I'll be with you in a second.'
She'd perfected pretending to be engrossed in her work
when people came into her office and had stopped feeling
guilty about what some people might consider to be wasting
time. Advertising might never have returned to the excesses of
the eighties but it was still keeping its end up, and she didn't
have to be sitting at her desk typing all day to be working hard.
While the legwork was done by her talented and incredibly enthusiastic
team, Rachel had time to do the whole lunch, drinking
club, award ceremony bit. She'd found she could
troubleshoot problems just as effectively whether she was in
her office or on Bond Street.
Will was becoming increasingly impatient and more than a
little fidgety--not unrelated to the fact that he didn't have a
cigarette in his hand to play with. Once he'd scooped the residual
froth out of his paper cup and eaten it from his finger he
watched Rachel. He felt slightly guilty about distracting her,
but he did have some exciting news.
'Sorry to disturb you...'
'No, no, it's fine. That's what I'm here for. Go ahead.'
She finally looked up. Will was beaming.
'We've got her...'
Rachel wondered whether there was another quick move she
could do. The Ace of Clubs must be under there somewhere.
She suddenly realised that Will had already stopped talking.
Damn. She minimised the game on her screen, stood up assertively
and walked over to the couch to join him.
'Sorry--you were saying?'
'We've got her. She's said yes to being filmed and--wait for
this--she's even given us permission to use the archive which,
even if I say so myself, is bloody miraculous but makes our
lives a hell of a lot easier.'
'Her...?'
Rachel struggled with her short-term memory. In the absence
of any recollection she feigned coolness. She didn't
want to portray a level of excitement that outweighed the level
of his achievement and therefore make herself look stupid.
Will wished that Rachel would just swallow her pride and
give him the credit he deserved. Communicating positive feedback
wasn't her forte. A couple of weeks ago she'd made him
feel like young creative of the moment, yet today--nothing.
Not a glimmer of recognition. She was just so up and down
these days. Women. Exasperation and frustration crept into his
tone.
'Indigo Jackson. As per our meeting last week. It was touch and go. Her agent wasn't sure at first, but a bit of intensive
schmoozing later and she's up for it.'
Will was annoyed. What was the point in him putting his
life on hold night after night if Rachel wasn't even paying attention?
Rachel
tried and failed to put a human interest story to the
name. Who the hell was Indigo Jackson? She sounded like
something off a rock chick's paint colour chart. But Will was
looking a little pissed off at her less than euphoric reaction to
his morning's work. She'd just have to trust him on this one.
In Will's eyes Indigo was obviously worth a champagne toast
at the very least.
'Great. Fab to have her on board.'
Great? Will thought it was more like fucking amazing. He
had just secured an exclusive with the widow of a no longer
living legend who had killed himself in search of the perfect
high, so depriving future generations of his lyrics and innovative
melodies, to talk about the pressures her husband had felt
and his regrets at getting in too deep, and all Rachel could manage
was 'great'. It was irritating him enough to instantly make
his nicotine patch redundant. If ever there was a time he had
wanted a cigarette or three it was now.
He wondered what would happen if he got Elvis out of his
coffin and on board to talk about his final years... A 'well
done', perhaps? A 'good work Will'? He knew the client and
the senior partners at the agency were thrilled with the way
things were shaping up. Rachel was soaking up all the compliments
at the moment, and he knew she could gush with the
best of them when she wanted to. What did he have to do to
impress her?
'Really, Will, that's great. If you could e-mail me a few cuts
and a biog on her when you get back to your desk that would
be perfect. Now, who else are we still waiting on?'

Rachel knew that it was thanks to Will, his persuasive charm
and his tireless ambition, that they now had several generations
of football players, a well-known TV actress and a handful of
ageing rock stars signed up to talk about how and why they
had beaten their habits, and now this Indigo woman. If Will
said she was good news then she was sure she was. Erudite and
gifted, he'd cut some powerful montages of archive footage
and present-day soundbites to some perfectly chosen and
memorable phrases of music, and he'd ensured that she now
had the appropriate CDs in her collection and the odd factoid
at her fingertips to wow clients with in meetings.
Last week he'd discovered that the guy who'd been tipped
as the next baron of the information superhighway, and a sure
entry into next year's Rich List, had marvellously--from their
point of view--lost five years of his life to heroin addiction
but against all the odds had fought back from rock bottom.
Human interest tales of rags to riches never failed to sell, and
Rachel was in the process of signing him an exclusive with a
Sunday tabloid to tie in with the launch of the campaign.
'AH we need now is a supermodel and a member of the
Royal family--or, more realistically, someone who has
shagged a member of the Royal family--who's dabbled in
drugs in the past and I think our wish list will be complete.'
Will was encouraged to see Rachel at least had the decency
to smile as she asked the impossible. He knew his brief only
too well, but she wasn't the one on the phone talking to agents
and sending faxes all day. The fashion world was a fiercely
closed shop, and trying to get any of their own to dish the dirt
on the more sordid aspects of the industry was proving impossible.
There were plenty of rumours but nothing concrete
to go on. Sure, they'd rooted out a disaffected few, but they just
sounded bitter and you suspected that, had their careers gone
better, they wouldn't have been remotely interested in taking
part. Besides, as far as Rachel was concerned it was either an
A-list name or no name at all.
'I know it's tough. But a model would be great. An expose
on the so-called glamour. Everyone knows it's going on.'
'"Everyone" might do, but no one's telling me anything.'
Will tried not to lose his cool. Rachel sensed she was dancing
close to the edge.
'I appreciate the effort. I know it's not easy out there--just
keep going. You never know who might say yes if you don't
try...'
But, Will thought to himself, I know who's going to say no.
'I'm getting a really good vibe about this. You're doing
great. You should be very proud of yourself.'
'Thanks.' Now she'd paid him a direct compliment Will had
no idea what to do with it. 'I'd better get back to the phone.
I'll e-mail you that biog later this afternoon.'
'No problem.' Rachel couldn't remember exactly which
biog, but she was confident she'd learn lots from Will's impeccable
research when it did arrive. Violet, Indigo--whoever
she was--would certainly seem a lot more familiar when she'd
read a potted history. Sometimes she missed her days at Will's
level. Frenetic, sparky, all-consuming and totally invigorating.
So what if the pay had never even been enough to cover alcohol,
let alone anything less frivolous? There'd been genuine camaraderie
lower down the pecking order. The higher you got,
the more the pecking became stabbing, and you became more
and more paranoid as you had to watch your back as your increased
salary becameharder to justify when things weren't
going award-winningly.
Rachel owed Will big time. His Midas touch meant they'd
be more than fulfilling their brief and reaching out to the age
group who were most influenced by the 'glamour' of the drug
culture without patronising them. Maybe it was time for a
team night out to boost morale.
Rachel wanted this to be a great campaign on every level.
Watch out Richard Branson, Ms Nice Guy, queen of motivational
leadership, was just waiting in the wings--and she didn't
see why she had to wear a sweatshirt or grow a beard in order
to be approachable. With this success she would be unstoppable--plus,
with a bit of time and the right preparation, she
was sure Mr Rachel wouldn't be able to resist her. It was going
to be a fantastic year; she could feel it.
Rachel celebrated Will's departure from her office by fin
ishing off her game of Solitaire with unprecedented speed and
focus. As she watched the victory cascade of cards through to
the end she made an executive decision to pop out. Her head
swimming with profile articles and acceptance speeches, she
knew that an hour in the shops would work the playfulness out
of her system--plus there was already a whole 'next-season'
thing happening in the retail world. Her new positivity about
life was about to be reflected in her wardrobe, and maybe
she'd even pick up a little something for Will while she was
out. They had Indigo Jackson. See, she had been listening.
Rachel found herself smiling. Will made her feel good about
herself. He could help her all the way to the top.
chapter

It might have been less than twenty-four hours since they'd
spoken, but Lizzie had eaten lasagne two meals running, polished
off an entire packet of Angel Delight and done more staring
into space than Patrick Moore. From the moment she'd
opened her eyes early on Wednesday morning frustratingly
she'd been wide awake, and so, at a time of day usually reserved
for families getting up to go on cheap package holidays,
she'd washed, dressed and headed to her study.
She hadn't logged on since Saturday, and decided to make
a start by going through her inbox in an attempt to break herself
in gently. Reading messages didn't involve mental agility
and proved a useful way of tricking her mind into concentrating
on something other than the time, the phone, and the possible
outcomes of her currently disastrous personal life. There
were twenty-three new items for her to read. Once she'd
deleted the junk messages trying to sell her tights, flights and
promising her lots of luck and money if only she forwarded it
to three girls, six boys and a partridge in a pear tree, she'd whittled
it down to fifteen.
Three were from the woman formerly known as Name and
Address Withheld. She and Rachel might have struck up a
slightly unorthodox correspondence, but Lizzie found their
almost daily asides a useful stress-reliever. It wasn't about
professional advice any more, it was--for want of a better
word--a friendship. If you could be friends with someone you
had never met or spoken to out loud. It was like passing notes.
Quick time-outs from their lives. And, in terms of ambitious
women trying to make the system work for them, they had a
lot in common. The last one had been sent at 22:12 yesterday
evening. She really did work late.

Everything OK? You're probably just snowed
under--believe me I know the feeling--but I've had
nothing from you in three days, and now it's February--don't
understand where this year is going. Ever
hectic at this end. Before you nag, rang Eurostar--well,
got secretary to ring Eurostar--yesterday, which is a
step in right direction. So get thinking of those romantic
restaurants.
Rx

Lizzie hit 'reply'. It was great having a pen-friend who only
knew what you'd selected to tell her about yourself. Faceless
sounding boards were the way forward. A bit like confession,
only not quite as spiritual. Perfect for your average non-practising,
half-Jewish agnostic.

Worry not. I'm still here. Feeling slightly sorry for myself
as my newish relationship (had been looking quite
positive) seems to have taken a turn for the worse.
Guess I shouldn't be surprised, but failed to see this
one coming. Still, enough of the whingeing--we agony
aunts have to develop thick skins and stress-free personal
lives and carry on regardless. Hope your cam
paign is coming together well. Can't wait to see the
ads. When do they start?
Lx

Lizzie steered clear of the specifics of her personal crisis.
This was work--well, sort of--and she was paid to solve problems,
not share them. She pressed 'send'. It was still only
06:36.
By nine, Lizzie had answered all her e-mailed letters,
printed off hard copies for the files and was just starting on a
bit of snail mail whilst tossing a few column ideas around at
the back of her mind. Despite herself she was feeling a bit
chirpier. Her concern was becoming increasingly detached
from her reality, as if she was hoping that the having a wife
revelation might have been a terrible nightmare brought on by
a late-night cheeseburger before bed.
09:17. A message pinged into her inbox. Note-passing was
officially underway.

Sorry to hear you've had shitty couple of days, but
good to know that you're not immune to the odd personal
crisis. Makes the rest of us feel less like failures.
Look at it as research. Now you know what the rest of
us go through. Fucking impressed (and frankly a bit intimidated)
to see you awake and working at 06:36.
What's the secret? I'm still waiting for my second coffee
to kick in.
Work hectic. No danger of a completed ad hitting the
cinema, a billboard or the TV for quite a while yet.
Own personal crisis still unfolding. No need for you to
put your professional hat on, but getting it out of my
system always helps. Seem to be growing further apart
by the hour. Becoming convinced he's having an affair.
I know there are some people out there who spend
their whole marriages forgiving and forgetting, but I
couldn't deal with that. An open marriage to me is
about as attractive an option as base jumping. So I'm
not quite the modern woman that I think I am, but
there's plenty of personal baggage that goes with it
and you don't need more than a couple of spare brain
cells to work out it's all related.
I was only twelve, but I can still remember the day
my mum found out that my dad had been having an
affair. They stayed together (for better, for worse, for
me, etc. etc.) until he died, but she's never really got
over the betrayal and I've always promised myself that
I would never let history repeat itself. At least we
haven't got any children to worry about, but my biggest
fear is that now I think I might have actually driven him
away. And the million-dollar question is: could I ever forgive
him? Answers on a postcard. Suppose I'd better
get on with my day.
Rx

Children. What if Matt had children? What if he was someone's
dad as well as someone's husband? Lizzie added it to her
mental list of questions--none of them light and fluffy--which
she was saving for lunchtime and clicked on 'reply'.

Sorry to hear things aren't running as smoothly as
you'd hoped. My advice--personal and professional--
is to stop putting it off and start talking to him. Stop worrying
about failing. If you really love him and want to
make things work then you need to tell him to his face.
If it's a case of mixed messages, harsh as it may seem,
you are both to blame--and if making your marriage
work is the most important thing to you both, then
you'll be able to weather this storm. Think of the long
term bigger picture and throw guilt and pride out of the
window. Only you two know what you've had in the
past, whether you can get it back, and whether it is
worth fighting for. Hold that head up and go for it. Fingers
Crossed. Happy Wednesday!
Lx

She got a response right away.

Don't mince those words! Thanks, though. Right, as
always.
Rx

Clare popped her head round the door at 10:28 with a mug
of tea and a saucer piled high with chocolate biscuits. In her
eyes dire emotional situations called for emergency rations, and yesterday Clare had compassionately filled the cupboards
with all Lizzie's favourite foods. She needn't have worried.
Lizzie's appetite was usually the last thing to go. Although
Clare had failed to notice that the one packet was lasting an
eternity--more than half a day was a lifetime in biscuit
terms--it was not a good sign.
'Sleep out of fashion these days?' Clare was doing her best
not to mention anything that might provoke tears. To be frank
it didn't leave her with many subjects to choose from.
'Just woke up really early and thought I'd make the most of
the morning, seeing as I did nothing yesterday except stare into
space and watch black and white films. Sometimes I think life
would be simpler if it was in black and white...' She was off
on a whimsical train of thought. It seemed, though, that Clare
wasn't interested in anything but the most direct and practical
this morning.
'Oh, and doing your show last night wasn't work, was it?
Honestly, Liz, sometimes you're your own worst enemy. You
put more pressure on yourself than anyone else ever will.'
True, Lizzie had pulled herself together for her radio show,
but actually focusing on something other than herself had been
a relief.
'Maybe... Thanks for the tea.'
'No problem. Look, I'm heading off in a minute--I've got
a few things to do before the lunch rush. If I were you I'd let
the answer-phone screen your calls. After all, you don't want
any nasty surprises.'
Lizzie smiled weakly. 'I've got nothing to say to him. Onwards
and upwards, hey?'
It was fighting talk with no fight. Lizzie wished Clare would
hurry up and go before Matt called to finalise their arrangements.
She'd decided not to mention it just in case Clare decided
to lock her in the airing cupboard to prevent her from
going. She could always tell her that Matt had dropped in
unannounced and dragged her out if she needed to talk to her
about it later. Still, fight or no fight, Clare was pleased with
the apparent change in Lizzie's attitude.
'That's my girl. I know it's hard, Liz, but it's the only way.'
'Mmm.' Lizzie was pretending to be deeply absorbed by a
letter from her postbag. It felt very wrong to be deceiving the
closest thing she had to a sister, but maybe he wouldn't even
call and then she wouldn't be lying to Clare anyway and could
probably get off on a technicality. Lizzie was suddenly aware
of the fact that Clare was now just standing in the doorway,
staring at her.
'Clare?'
'Yes, Liz.'
'Please stop feeling sorry for me. I don't think I can bear
it.'
'Don't be daft. Just thinking how brave you're being. I know
it's been tough for you...'
Been tough? Clare really had no idea what she was going
through, did she? A mere day and a half into her crisis, it was
getting tougher every hour. Lizzie didn't have the energy to
have a whole conversation right now, so nodded in a 'thankyou-now-piss-off-with-your-tea-and-sympathy-so-I-can-get- on-with-agonising-over-what-to-do-next' manner. The message
wasn't conveyed. Lizzie obviously had a bit of work to
do on her meaningful nods. Clare was still chatting.
'Listen, I was thinking--one of the girls at work does Reiki
massages. She's fully qualified and everything. Why don't I
see if she could pop over and give you one here? My treat. I'm
sure we can spare her for a couple of hours this afternoon.'
'Thanks, but...' Lizzie didn't quite know how to put this
without sounding ungrateful and spoilt, but the last thing she
wanted was someone dropping in this afternoon. She had to
nip Clare's latest scheme in the bud or run the real risk of being
found out. 'How well do you know me?'

'Very well?'
Clare was tentative. She wasn't sure what the right answer
was. Lizzie obviously had one in mind, and she didn't want to
get it wrong when she was patently teetering on an emotional
tightrope this morning.
To Clare's relief Lizzie nodded. 'Yes. Sometimes better
than I know my self...in which case you should know what I
think of alternative therapies...' It was meant to be sarcastic
bordering on the amusing but out loud it just sounded rude.
'Reiki...whatever next? Shovelly... Trowelly... Spadey...? Clare,
you of all people shouldn't be taken in by this Eastern channelling
of energy, I'll lay my hands on you for forty quid bollocks.'
Clare
decided to overlook Lizzie's lack of gratitude in light
of everything going on.
'So I take it that I shouldn't send her over?'
'No, thanks. I appreciate the concern but I'll be fine. I'd
rather you bought me forty pounds' worth of white toast and
chocolate spread than a massage.' Lizzie smiled to demonstrate
to Clare that she appreciated the gesture even if everything that
came out of her mouth was acid-coated at the moment. It was
the best she could do.
Clare swallowed her slightly dented pride and administered
a maternal peck to the top of Lizzie's head. Clare knew she'd
probably burst into tears the minute the front door closed behind
her, and irritatingly all she could do was make sure Lizzie
knew that she was there for her. 'Look after yourself. You
know where I am if you need me...and ten out often for washing
your hair this morning. No wonder you're feeling more
human today. Lots of love.'
Lizzie heard the front door close and gave it ten minutes be
144Jane Sigaloff

fore she took the saucer of biscuits back to the tin for recycling.
Just because she was confused and depressed didn't mean she
wanted to be fat too.
Eerily the phone rang only seconds later as if Matt had
sensed Clare's recent departure. True to his word he'd booked
lunch somewhere quiet in Richmond, and was coming to collect
her en route.

They were quiet in the taxi. It was as if they were saving
heavy conversation for the table and small talk at this point
would somehow have been hypocritical. Lizzie checked her
bag and was relieved to discover that she'd had the foresight
to bring her sunglasses. It wasn't exactly sunny, but it wasn't
raining either, and she was sure that they'd prove useful when
leaving the restaurant.
Meeting up to talk to Matt had appealed to the drama queen
in her. Now, at their table tucked away in the corner, she was
wondering whether this had been such a good idea. Matt
looked tired. His eyes were dull, his face haggard and drawn.
His skin was--well, grey. He reached across the table and
took Lizzie's hands in his.
'I am so sorry. You've really got no idea how sorry. I'd do
anything to turn back the clock and to have told you at the beginning.
That was the original plan.'
But, Lizzie wondered, if he had told her, would she still have
gone out with him? It was a tough one. Probably not. But then
she'd never have known what she was missing. Part of her
could understand why he'd found it so hard to bring it up but,
she reminded herself sternly, he'd tricked her, he'd lied, and that
was unacceptable however flatteringly you tried to pitch it.
'When did it all get so complicated?' Her voice trembled as
she started to speak and she swallowed in an attempt to steady
it. 'I wish I was a child again, when the most stressful thing
about life was whether it was hair-wash night or not.'
Matt smiled. Lizzie was incredible. Trying to retain her
sense of humour when he had given her every reason to trade
it in for a machete. She looked pale and resigned, but underneath
the shadows she was still Lizzie. 'Thanks so much for


J
agreeing to meet. I just wanted a chance to set the record
straight. To tell you how I feel. To try and explain. I had the
best intentions...'
The blood was visibly draining from Lizzie's face, and if
her eyes had been any wider they would have met in the middle.
She snatched her hand back and ran it through her hair distractedly.
Matt was confused. He hadn't really said anything
yet. Suddenly she leapt to her feet, a pseudo but instant smile
now plastered across her face. Matt turned to follow her gaze.
Small world alert. Friends on the horizon. Lousy timing.
One beautiful young Elizabeth Hurley body double and an
older well-dressed woman with something familiar about her.
'Darling! It is--you see...' She turned to her companion.
'What a coincidence. I thought it was you, but Alex was trying
to tell me that you'd be hard at work, not lunching in Surrey.
But I just knew. Is that a new jumper? Very nice. The
colour really suits you.'
Lizzie glared at her mother as she advanced towards her.
This was definitely not a moment for her to grab the scruff of
her daughter's neck and inspect the label. Lizzie leant forward
and gave her a kiss. It seemed to be enough to distract her.
'Working hard?' Did Alex look mischievous or was Lizzie
just feeling ridiculously guilty? Had she whipped her hand
away in time?
'Mum, Alex...what a surprise!'
Matt breathed in. Lizzie's mother. And the legendary Alex.
He'd heard plenty about her. And, surprisingly, on first appearances
she did live up to her reputation. Her physique didn't
suggest that she'd ever been anywhere near an obstetrician.
Matt didn't really know where to look. He had no idea how
much they did or didn't know. He was going to have to follow
Lizzie's lead.
'Working lunch?' Annie Ford was almost rubbing her hands
together with the excitement of the moment.
'Something like that. Are you two having lunch here too?'
Lizzie prayed very hard that they were running late for a very
important appointment. They had to be going. They just
had to.
'No...unfortunately not.'
Relief flooded Lizzie's system. In her opinion there was absolutely
nothing unfortunate about it all.
'We came in for a morning coffee and were just on our way
out when I thought I saw you walk past.'
'Annie we've got to get going. I'm supposed to fetch Josh
in ten minutes and we've got to get the car from the multistorey.
I don't want to be late. He'll think he's been abandoned.'
Lizzie
could have kissed her sister-in-law. Regrettably,
though, her mother didn't seem to be going anywhere. She now
seemed to be staring at Matt, just waiting for an introduction.
Lizzie was going to make it a quick one.
'Sorry--how rude of me...' Lizzie turned to Matt almost
apologetically.
'This is David. He works at the advertising agency that runs
the City FM account.'
Lizzie glared at Matt/David. He beamed back at her, any surprise
or confusion carefully camouflaged. Lizzie shouldn't
have underestimated him. After all, she kept forgetting he was
practically a professional liar.
'Lovely to meet you, David.'
'And you...' Matt left a gap for her to fill.

'Annie--Annie Ford. Lizzie's mother.'
'No, surely not. You couldn't possibly be. You simply don't
look old enough.'
Lizzie balked, glad she had just invented his persona. She
couldn't have anyone she was supposed to be in love with saying
things that cheesy in public. But, judging by the rapturous
expression on Annie's face, it appeared to be working.
Luckily there were no more chairs at their definite table for
two, and her grandson was demanding vehicular attention, or
Lizzie felt sure that her mother at the very least would have
sat down to join them. But, with Alex now practically rattling
her car keys under Annie's nose, 'David' was spared an interview.
As Lizzie watched them walk into the street she waved,
silently waiting until they had turned the corner just in case her
147


mother's bat-like hearing was in extra-sensory pick-up mode.
Matt was the first to speak.
'Sorry, Liz, I had no idea your mum lived in Richmond.'
'She doesn't. She must be on day-release from Hampstead.
Do you think they suspected anything? I bet Alex knew what
was going on; she just had that glint in her eye.'
'Knew what? What is there to know? Surely you haven't
mentioned a mystery David from the agency before today?'
'No, course not. But you don't know my family. They're not
going to a let a little thing like a different name get in the way.
Shit. This could even get back to Clare now. It's not going to
take a lot of imagination on her part to work out what's going
on.' For the moment Lizzie's mind was overcrowded with
every possible nightmarish eventuality.
'Just for the record, they seemed very nice. You're right
about Alex. Gorgeous. A little too groomed for me, but I can
see what you mean.'
This was all too weird. She shouldn't have come. Yet Matt
had handled it all so well and now, inspired by his stealth, she
could feel herself weakening, lizzie took a deep breath and
told herself not to be so pathetic. There was a silence at the
table while they gathered their thoughts, recently scattered by
their surprise visitors. Matt was the first to recover.
'But, Liz, look--getting back to why we're here... You see,
the thing--'
'Matt.' Lizzie interrupted him before he started to make
sense. 'This can't work. You're married. You've got a wife. For
all I know you've got children too.'
'No. Liz. No children. And a wife in name, yes, but we don't
do anything together any more.'
Anything? Lizzie wanted to ask when they'd last had sex.
She wanted to know, and then she didn't. You see. How could
she have ever entertained--even fleetingly--the idea that this
could all work out. No children, though. That was a relief. At
least he wasn't a 'Daddy' as well as a 'Darling'.
'But you're somebody else's husband and I assume your
wife doesn't know about us.' Lizzie looked directly at Matt.
He looked back blankly. She had her answer. 'For all you
know she's just waiting for a chance to try and work things out
with you. For all I know you still sleep with her every night.'
'Of course not. Do you really believe I'd do that?'
Right now Lizzie wasn't sure what she believed. Matt
gripped Lizzie's hand tightly between his palms as he searched
for the right thing to say next. Lizzie started speaking first.
'I never had you down as the devious type...until Monday.'
She couldn't compete with someone she didn't know. And she
wasn't interested in competing, full stop. She deserved to be
somebody's one and only.
'I'll tell her. I'll leave.' Matt heard his voice. It sounded hollow.
He wished he'd been honest from the start. He knew how
it looked now. It was up to him to prove his worth, yet every
time he set himself a challenge he seemed to fail miserably. It
was time to get tough. To get a grip.
So he hadn't told her yet. Interesting, Lizzie thought. A definite
case of has cake, will eat it too if given the chance. Clare
was being proved right yet again.
'If you hadn't met me you'd still be with her, wouldn't you?
What am I saying? You're still with her now. What I mean is
that you wouldn't have left, wouldn't be leaving...whatever...'
There was a long pause.
'Probably not.' Matt sighed. 'I suppose I was resigned to my
fate--thought that half a marriage was better than none. But
then I met you and knew we should never have even got married.
There were a couple of years when all our friends tied the
knot and we just followed suit. It was never a case of not being
able to live without each other. More like being used to living
with each other. Romantic stuff.'
'Come off it. You can live without anyone if you have to.
You don't go into any relationship expecting your partner to
take responsibility for your happiness. You're still the same
person.'
'You know what I mean, Liz. Sure, I was fond of her--yes,
I even loved her. And I went into our marriage believing it was
for ever. I don't think you can do it any other way. But she's
changed. She cares about her job, about having enough money,
the right clothes, about what other people think, but she doesn't
care about me...not really...only what I can provide. I admit, I
tried to make it work. I wanted us to sort things out. I was determined.
I'm not a quitter. I know relationships aren't always
easy. My parents are only still together because they've worked
bloody hard at their marriage in the past, but she's never listened.
She could never see things from my point of view or
maybe she just didn't want to. You know me much better than
she does right now.'
'I thought I knew you.'
'You do know me. We're both suffering. Why? Because we
should be together. But now I'm scared that I've blown it all
before we've really even had a chance to get started.' Matt felt
his throat constrict. Tears scratched at his eyes.
Lizzie watched him struggling to control his emotions. Did
she only want him because she knew that she couldn't have
him? If only it was that simple. No, she actually believed that
she really did love him. Damn. This was much harder than
she'd thought it would be.
'What if your wife loves you but is just too proud to admit
it?' Lizzie thought back to her earlier e-mail exchange with
Rachel. 'I've had letters in the past from people like that.'
'Well, if she loves me she's got a funny way of showing it.
Come on, Liz, you must've seen and heard this all before, and
from lots of different perspectives.'
1 don't want to be responsible for breaking up your marriage.
If it's over then leave. If it's not over then stay. Don't do
any of this on a whim. If you decide to move on it's got to be
because it's the right thing for you, and you should do it
whether I'm around or not.'
'What are you saying?' An edge of panic crept into his
voice.
'Matt, you know how hard this is for me. But we're not the
only two people involved. I'm trying to think about how I
would feel if I was your wife. No one said marriages maintained
themselves, and you know I'd love for us to gallop off
into the sunset together, but this is real life. You have a career.
I have a career. You have a wife. I've got principles.'
'I've got principles too. I'm not trying to trade my wife in
for a younger model...this is all wrong...I just want us to be together,
Liz. Please...'
Lizzie thought she'd said a whole host of sensible things
quite coherently and maturely and felt she deserved some sort
of major recognition for having managed not to cry. Now Matt
had beaten her to it. Silent tears were running down his cheeks.
Sometimes she wished she'd trained herself to be totally unemotional.
Her life would have been easier if she'd learned to
worry less about other people and their feelings and just concentrated
on looking after herself. Lizzie wanted desperately
to reach out to him. To help. So she did. Her tone softened.
'Hey, Matt.'
He looked up, relieved to hear that the controlled, more
abrasive edge to her voice had gone.
'Listen. This is so hard for me, on so many levels. You know
how much I care about you. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't
bear it. But I can't do the whole mistress thing either.'
'I know, I know.'
'Everywhere I've looked for the last thirty-six hours there's
been something about "the other woman". Magazine covers
are the worst--"My life as a mistress..." "Why three is better
than two..." "Being a mistress ruined my life..." You know the
type. I know they're probably always there and I'm just noticing
them more now, but I'm innocent. I was unsuspecting-- naive, maybe--yet I feel like a social outcast. I can't live this
way. I feel battered and bruised inside and out. It's not fair.'
'I'm sorry. I know I've been selfish but I really believed we
could work.'
So did I, thought Putney's latest pariah. So did I.
They barely ate. They talked about everything and anything
except the things that really mattered.
As the taxi pulled up outside Lizzie's flat, Matt reached for
Lizzie and smothered her with a hug. He wasn't sure what happened
next but he didn't want to let go.
Lizzie heard herself speaking before she could stop herself.
'Why don't you come in for coffee?'
Matt pulled back, surprised, but his hesitation was only momentary.
He paid the taxi driver without a second thought and
followed an equally stunned Lizzie up the path. What on earth
did she think she was doing? She didn't even remember
wrestling with the idea. It was as if her heart had bypassed her
brain.

It was the first time that Lizzie had had sex in the full knowledge
that she was a mistress--and she didn't intend for it to
become a habit.
Sometimes the best intentions are laid to rest.
chapter

Death to all things pink, red and heart-shaped. It was just another
Tuesday in Lizzie's world, but to rest of the human race
it appeared to be much, much more. It was Valentine's Day--
although, observing the reddish tint that had descended over
London during the last seven days, one would be forgiven for
thinking that it was Valentine's Week. Who on earth had picked
mid-February as the moment when you're supposed to declare
your undying love? Not only is it one of the coldest,
bleakest months of the year, but everyone is a little too dull in
complexion, a couple of pounds heavier--for comfort and
warmth--and still paying for the indulgences of Christmas on
their credit cards.
As far as Lizzie was concerned it had always been a day for
greetings card manufacturers and restaurant owners, who could
charge the earth for one night only, but now it seemed that nothing
was immune from the hearts-and-flowers marketing approach.
Even the opticians in Putney were attempting to lure
in new customers for eye tests with their catchy slogan 'Don't
get hooked up with the wrong girl this Valentine's!'
Smug marrieds said that they didn't need a special day to
tell each other how they felt. The rest of the world waited for
the postman, pretending that they didn't care, and then rang or
wrote to Lizzie in the evening. Good, then, that this year her
studio night fell on the day when those people not at a table
for two needed some common sense and a bit of perspective.
Lizzie was looking forward to being able to lend a hand.
She'd already faxed her playlist to Ben. Soppy Phyllis Nelson
'Move Closer' soul numbers were out. George Michael
wouldn't be whispering carelessly or indeed at all on City FM
tonight. Instead Prince was waiting in the wings, ready to tell
London that they needed another lover like they needed a hole
in their heads, Aretha Franklin would be demanding 'Respect',
the Soup Dragons reminding listeners at home and in their cars
that being 'Free' was no bad thing. 'I Will Survive' was on
standby. While Lizzie thought it was over-used, she knew that
it was an anthem of the sisterhood and that most women over
the age of twenty-five had turned, pointed and waggled their
fingers at each other during the chorus somewhere, some time.
But tonight wasn't an 'I hate men' evening. While they
might rarely admit to tuning in to a problem phone-in, the most
recent ratings breakdown revealed that over forty per cent of
Lizzie's listeners had a penis, and there'd be plenty of guys
who'd be just as gutted by their lack of postal attention.
Over at Union Jack's, red was the colour and romance was
the game. At a price, of course. Five courses, if you were being
pedantic. And Clare was packing them in to the rafters. Candles
had been bought in bulk for instant atmosphere, and to top
it all Clare had demanded some last-minute research, leaving
Lizzie to trawl the internet for romantic quotes to write on the
bottom of the menu and chalk up on the specials blackboards
around the restaurant--an at times nauseating task. Thanks to
Lizzie, Clare was now in possession of wise words from everyone
from Mae West to Miss Piggy.
Time had flown and frustratingly, in the real world, Lizzie
was now running late. She'd been ignoring the new messages
sing-songing their way into her inbox, postponing them for
later. Only later had just run out. Her cab had arrived a good
ten minutes ago and was idling impatiently across the road.
Lizzie highlighted the new arrivals and pressed 'print'. That
way she could glance through them in the car before she got
to the studio, just in case there was anything she really should
know about before going on air. While the printer rattled into
life Lizzie rushed upstairs to grab her jacket. At least she didn't
have to do the whole getting ready, wash and blow-dry thing.
One of the best things about being a radio presenter was not
having to choose the right colours and the right neckline. She
could have sat in the studio in a hessian sack if she'd found
one to fit.
She stuffed the printouts into her bag as she dashed back to
her study and logged off. In a whirlwind of papers, files, keys
and scarves--well, one scarf, but it seemed to be getting in the
way of everything--she finally made it into the taxi. She
checked her watch. Shit. How could it possibly be 7:00 p.m.
when it had been five-thirty-five for ages? She was supposed
to be at the studio now for the production meeting. She jiggled
her knee impatiently in the back just as, as if to spite her, the
cab swung round the corner, instantly joining a traffic jam.
Lizzie puffed audibly. The driver, until now blissfully monosyllabic,
to her horror took it as a sign that she wanted to chat.
'It's terrible, isn't it? Traffic in London is just getting worse
and worse. Sure, sometimes you feel like punching the lights
out of the van driver that has just cut in front of you, but it
wouldn't do any good--and besides, you always get there
eventually.'
'Mmm.' Lizzie didn't want the driver to think she was interested in talking about urban congestion in any sort of detail.
'I
mean, you can't help thinking that one day London will
literally grind to a halt. And if they keep selling new cars without
taking away the old ones it's going to happen sooner rather
than later. Total gridlock... Anyway--Jesus, mate, call that
driving? Sorry, love...but, God, sometimes you wonder where
these people learnt to drive...I mean, look at that...'
'I know.' Lizzie wasn't quite sure what she was endorsing
and she didn't really care. She needed to collect her thoughts,
155


or at least have time for a couple of thoughts of her own before
her show started.
The driver wound down his window and leant out, beckoning
madly. A freezing gust of air swirled into the back seat. If
Lizzie breathed out she was sure her breath would be visible
but she didn't dare tell him to close it.
'Go on, love. Go on. You could get a bleedin' Range Rover
through that gap.'
Slowly but surely the driver--unfortunately female--of the
Range Rover--not bleeding as far as Lizzie could see--edged
through the totally adequate space for her car and the traffic
started moving again, slowly. He wound up the window and
Lizzie removed her hands from under her armpits, where they
were keeping warm.
'I know I shouldn't say anything, and I'm not saying all
women are bad drivers or anything, but you do see it more and
more these days. W.I.B.C.S.--that's what I call it...'

'W.I.B.C.S.?' Lizzie really didn't want to start a conversation,
but she was sort of curious.
'Women in Big Cars Syndrome. Their husbands should buy
them superminis.'
Lizzie mentally buttoned her lip. It was either that or time
for one of her lectures on the joys of womanhood. And he was
a cab driver. Opinions set in stone. She only hoped that was
the end of that little discourse. She could only keep her feminist
gene latent for so long.
'So I take it you're in a hurry, then?'
' Yup. Have to be at the studios by seven-forty-five at the absolute
latest.' Allowing her to race through, shout her apologies
to the rest of the team and be in her chair with five minutes
to go. He tactfully didn't bring up waiting time at this juncture,
and Lizzie was grateful for this smallest of mercies. She
was sure that City FM didn't pay through the nose for 'executive
cars'--basically vaccumed and waxed mini-cabs--so
that their drivers could lecture the presenters on their punctuality,
or indeed anything else.
'I'll get you there as fast as I can, my darling.'
The cab lurched off the main road and swung into a network
of side streets. Lizzie called Ben to blame the traffic and let
him know that God willing she'd be in the studio long before
the opening jingle, but had a quick word with Phil, her sound
engineer, behind his back, about the first track and the feasibility
of doing her opening link on her mobile just in case.
The alternative route seemed to be working. Lizzie located
the already slightly dog-eared messages in her bag and started
reading, holding the pages up just in case the driver was in any
doubt that she was working and not to be disturbed.
Lizzie scanned them. One from Rachel, one from Susan
Sharpies, her editor at Out Loud, reminding her that her column
was due to be on her desk by Thursday, a joke--in the loosest sense of the word--forwarded to the whole team by
one of the girls at City FM, the punchline buried in amongst
meaningless lists of who the message had been forwarded to,
by and from, and one from Matt.
Lizzie smiled. So he might not have remembered to send her
a card in a pink envelope, but at least she had heard from him
on the fourteenth. She was sure that Valentine's was the last
thing that he wanted to celebrate. She decided to save his message
for last and turned to Rachel's instead.

L
Just a quickie. You'd be proud. I'm making an effort
and it's not work-related. Just nipped home pre Valentine's-dinner-date-with-my-husband-haircut
and have
managed to beg, borrow and schmooze a table at that
new place on the river by Tower Bridge. According to
all the glossies and colour supplements it's the place
to be seen. Hope all's well with you. Catch up soon.
Must dash. Steve won't wait for me, scissors poised,
all afternoon!
Rx

Lizzie smiled. Trust Rachel to book a meal, and book it in
style. Image was everything in her world. Lizzie hoped that
they had a good evening.
She settled back in her seat to read the one she'd been saving
for last. At a glance it wasn't exactly heart-shaped--still,
a message was a message, and she was the other woman...what
did she expect? Furtive wasn't likely to be ostentatious. Although
trust her to be the sort of mistress who wasn't showered
with Tiffany boxes at every opportunity.

Dearest Lizzie
Only me. Just to say Happy V. Day--not that I'm sure
St Valentine would approve of our current status... According
to my sources, he is the patron saint of young
couples and happy marriages...oh, and of love, lovers and love lotteries, which is, I guess, where we come
in. I know you think today is all a gimmick, but anybody
who likes romantic comedies would be devastated not
to receive at least one amorous missive on today of
all days...

Lizzie couldn't help but smile. He could read her like a
book. She might not have known him for long, but Matt already
knew her very well.

Just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, that
I love you, and I promise I'll sort this mess out just as
soon as I can. I hope that one day you'll be able to forgive
me for putting us through this.
Lots of love, and speak to you soon, Matt xxxxx
PS Do not, I repeat do not, hit the reply button. I'm
sending this one from her home terminal as she's
popped out.

The warm feeling vanished. Great. So he was e-mailing
from the marital home--all set, it seemed, to spend the evening
with his missus. At least Lizzie's scarlet woman status fitted
into the mid-Feb colour scheme, but what a nightmare for his
wife: a bombshell about to hit as soon as it wasn't the four
teenth or national love week, or whatever they were in at the
moment.
Maybe she wouldn't care. Maybe his wife was seeing someone
else too. Lizzie could only hope. She almost wished he
hadn't bothered with an e-mail. Thanks to him, her rational
streak seemed to have temporarily deserted her. There was
probably stuff to be positive about--the fact that he had sent
her a note had to count for something--but what she really
wanted was a second opinion, or in actual fact Clare's. But if
she asked her it was highly likely that she'd be shot at pointblank
range, probably using the silencer that Clare kept in her
handbag for certifiable flatmates at times like this. She pushed
her thoughts to the back of her mind. Right now she had to prepare
for the airwaves.
According to the green luminous digital numbers of the in
car clock, it was already 19.28, but thanks to their creative
route, and with a little bit of luck and a few green traffic lights,
she was going to be there on time. Lizzie opened her folder
and, using the rings to punch holes in the pages, added her
e-mails to the back of the file. As she shuffled the pages something
caught her eye. She froze.
A gasp escaped. A gasp that sounded remarkably like 'fuck'.
But this was one of the few moments that truly merited that sort
of language--even from a woman. Unfortunately the noise had
attracted the driver, who perked up at the prospect of more
chat.
'Everything all right, love? Should be there any minute.
Told you I'd get you there on time. You can trust Tony. I know
these roads like the back of my hand.'

Lizzie didn't hear him.
It couldn't be. Her heart hammered in her chest. She stared.
She checked. She double-checked. She triple-checked.
At first she thought she was just being technically moronic--it
wouldn't have been the first time. But, no. There at
the top of the printouts:

To: Lizzie Ford asklizzie@outloud.co.uk
From: rachelb@msn.co.uk
Identical to the header on the message from Matt.
The realisations came in waves. They hit her one at a time
but in quick succession. In no time the barrage had become a
tide. Lizzie could feel herself drowning.
Rachel was the wife neglecting her husband.
Matt was the husband that Rachel was so terrified of losing.
Rachel was the wife that Matt said he no longer loved.
Matt was the husband that Rachel had suspected of having
an affair.
Rachel was married to Matt.
Matt was sleeping with Lizzie.

Somehow Lizzie got through her show. As she went from the
last caller to the last song on automatic pilot, Lizzie wondered
sado-masochistically what they were up to. By the time she left
the studios she'd been torturing herself for at least an hour with
thoughts of their moonlit stroll along the Thames. After an
enormous comfort blanket of a takeaway--even though she'd
learned in a slightly wider incarnation of herself a few years earlier
that Chinese food after 11:00 p.m. was waistline suicide--
Lizzie checked the messages again. The addresses were the
same as they'd been four hours ago. The same. Period.
In bed, Lizzie read and re-read the words as she wrestled
with her duvet. It was an impossible situation. Even Houdini
would have been sweating at the challenge of getting out of
this in one piece. Finally, at 3:43 a.m., she made a mental list
of options; it was the middle of the night which explained why
some of them were less plausible than others.

Option A - Invite Rachel and Matt over for dinner and tell
them face to face.
Option B - Change name. Move to Australia. Join religious
order.
Option C - Tell Matt the truth.

But Rachel had contacted her in confidence initially. Betraying
her trust--totally unprofessional. Plus, if anyone found
out, she could end up losing her job at the magazine. Unless
she swore Matt to secrecy. But could she trust him? She
thought yes, but then again he had been married and not told
her, so maybe no.

Option D - Tell Rachel the truth.

But how? And just because Matt had misbehaved that didn't
mean she had to follow suit. Playing dirty was not her
style...and for all she knew Rachel was a karate black belt,
mentally unstable, or knew a hit man.

Option E - Ask Clare what to do.

But probably not live to see the light of day once Clare
found out she'd continued seeing Matt behind her back.

Option F - Write letters to Matt, Rachel and Clare explaining
everything before choosing Option B.
Option G - Run away with Matt. Let dust and tabloid outrage
settle before writing a book on subject, selling film
rights and returning to do chat show circuit in five years'
time. But alienate friends and family in process.

There was no way out. She'd screwed up on every level. Her
transgression was professional, personal and simply unbelievably
unlucky. Lizzie felt sure that she would have been
more likely to win the lottery than for this to have happened.
If only she'd bought a ticket.
There was always Option H--The Pretty Woman plan. Disappear
to LA under assumed identity, become hooker on Hollywood
Boulevard and hope a Richard Gere character scooped
her into his sports car, giving her lots of money to spend,
falling in love with her and providing a penthouse for them to
live happily ever after in.
What was it with her romantic core? It only caused trouble.
161


Deep down Lizzie knew that there was really only one option.
She had to tell Matt it was over and get him and Rachel back
together. For his sake, for Rachel, for Clare and for her career.
That way there was a real chance that they could all be happy-- well, happy enough--and Lizzie might get to keep her job and
at least some vestige of her sanity.
It was starting to get light as lizzie, slipped into a fitful sleep,
her subconscious content to let her rest, now safe in the knowledge
that she knew what she had to do even if she had no real
idea how she was going to go about it.

Lizzie had woken up with every intention of calling Matt to
tell him it was over, but by ten-thirty she'd decided it would
be more civilised to meet up for a chat. Plus that way she
could see his face just to make sure that this all really did add
up. But, as good as her advice got, she was never going to repair
their marriage while she continued to provide the problem.
At least she'd never met Rachel. Only a small mercy,
perhaps, but something to hold onto all the same.
Lizzie fabricated a magazine meeting in Soho before suggesting
they grab a coffee together. By three-fifteen she was
in situ, Option F looking more attractive by the second. Matt
breezed in while Lizzie was leafing through an abandoned
tabloid at a table by the window.
'Tall, skinny, wet latte to stay.' Lizzie listened to him place
his order and looked down at her more rudimentary cappuccino.
She hadn't quite got to grips with coffee jargon yet.
He drummed his fingers on the counter impatiently while
waiting the few seconds for his drink. He couldn't wait to
see Lizzie's face when he gave her his news. He would've
been whistling if it wouldn't have made him sound like a
builder. He was at her side in moments and playfully kissed
her hello.
Lizzie was trying to combine small talk with pseudo-offhand-but-detailed
questioning. Her combined lack of sleep
and lunch started to take their toll, and the caffeine seemed to
be going straight to her bloodstream, causing an almost out of
body experience. Matt for some inexplicable and almost irritating
reason was overly chirpy. Maybe it was good that she
was finding him annoying. Maybe the bubble had burst. She
only hoped that his good mood had nothing to do with last
night. Childishly she decided to test him.
'Thanks for your e-mail. So, did you have a nice evening?'
'Well, if you take away the fact that I'd obviously rather have
been with you, it could have been worse, I suppose. We went
out. She took me to that new place near Tower Bridge...'
So he could discern between fact and fiction. Lizzie was relieved.
'The
food wasn't bad, but the atmosphere was pretty
strained at first. I felt a bit of a fraud, to be honest. All I've been
thinking about recently is how to get out of there, and I could
tell she was making a huge effort. We don't normally eat together
at home, let alone go out...but it all got easier during the second bottle of wine...'
'Oh.'
It was in the running for the smallest noise that Lizzie had
ever made.
'...huge effort...all got easier...'They were the words that lingered
for a few extra seconds before vanishing into the ether
to be reunited with their counterparts. While she knew that she
was supposed to be getting Matt and Rachel back together,
Lizzie hadn't really considered how she might feel if they did
end up being happy.
'Easier. Not fun. Well, not like we have fun. I suppose it was
just better than I thought it would be. I thought it was going to
be a hideous evening and it was quite bearable--but then I
guess we have got years of old stories to fall back on...'
It came out wrong. He could see Lizzie's face had fallen.
He seemed to be stuck in a cul-de-sac of inarticulacy. It was
incredibly frustrating.
'Listen...what I mean--what I'm trying to say is--she was
excited about going to this new restaurant. She always likes to
check out the latest places before everyone else, and fortunately
the food was a lot less bland than the conversation. I
can't even remember the last time we ate out on our own together.
She's on a bit of a roll at work, which is great--it's all
she's ever wanted--and wanted to talk all about it. Anyway, I
don't want to talk about her. How are you doing? How was
your show last night?'
Matt gave Lizzie his best winning smile. He'd show her. It
would all work out in the end.
'Maybe you're making a mistake? Maybe you should give
it another go?'
OK, so his smile was only in the bronze medal position at
the moment. He'd have to try harder.
'Look, I care about her, like I'd care about a sister if I had
one, but I'm in love with you.'
'So you keep saying.'
'Listen, I spoke to a solicitor yesterday.' This wasn't how
he'd envisaged telling her.
Lizzie paused momentarily as her heart skipped a beat.
Maybe she was too late.
'And?' she dared herself to ask.
'Well, if I leave her for you I'll probably get stung in the
settlement...but what does that matter? I probably deserve
some of it. I mean, it had all gone wrong long before I met you.
Fact. But I, the self-appointed captain of the inertia team, was
still there, and let's face it I'm the one who's failed to mention
you so far. I just can't seem to find the right moment. It feels
like she's always in the office, shopping, out for a drink or
asleep. And it's not like I can send her a text message about
all of this. I'm not the sort of guy who's just going to leave a
note on the kitchen table either. But I am genuine, Lizzie.'

Lizzie was panicking. If she was to stand any chance of getting
him and Rachel back together this was not the time for
him to get honest.
'But you don't have to tell anyone you've met someone.
Can't you just cite irreconcilable differences, irrevocable
breakdown, general growing apartness?'
'Sod that, Liz. I'm sick and tired of all this deceit. If I'm
leaving her for you, I don't care who knows.'
'No, Matt. I don't want to be the reason. Can't you see...?'
No, if he was being honest, he couldn't. Not unless he'd
missed something crucial along the way. He'd thought she'd
be thrilled, maybe a little bowled over, but definitely not this
hesitant.
'Look, you have to decide if being without her is what you
really want. It's early days for us, and I think you probably
need some time on your own first before we go any further. I
mean, you can't just go seamlessly from her to me.'
Matt was feeling very uncomfortable. He didn't understand
when this conversation had careered off the rails. He couldn't
see why things were any different today. Maybe he should have
bought her a heart-shaped present or something. Sometimes
he really didn't get women at all. They weren't from Venus.
More like a whole different galaxy. He'd thought Lizzie was
different. She was different. Only today she was in a very peculiar
mood.
'Come on, Liz, don't be all funny with me. It'll all sort itself
out, you'll see. I can't tell you how relieved I am that it's
all going to be over soon. It's been doing my head in. Imagine
how nice it will be to just be able to spend some normal
time together. Just watching videos curled up on the sofa at
home, reading the papers in bed on a Sunday morning. Normal
time. Not all this emotional freefall. A bit of fun.'
Lizzie had to admit it would definitely have been something
to look forward to if the situation could have been different.
Instead she focused on the reason she was sipping coffee in
Wl, dressed in a suit, having hot-footed it there from a totally
spurious meeting.
'I saw from your e-mail address last night that your wife's
called Rachel.'
It was a total change of tack. Matt wasn't sure what came
next, or indeed what the point of the question was. He'd always
made sure that he hadn't used her name around Lizzie
because it did personalise things, and he didn't really want to
have to think about her all the time or indeed any of the time
that he and Lizzie spent together.
'That's right.'
'What does she do?'

L
Name & Address Withheld165

'I'm sure I've told you before. She's in advertising.'
Matt was concerned. Maybe this whole deception thing had
finally got to Lizzie. He was amazed at how well she'd managed
to handle it so far, but now she was asking lots of strange
questions--apparently apropos of nothing--about his dinner
with his wife. It was probably only natural in a competitive female
sort of way. He was only a man. What did he know?
He humoured her. Seeing Lizzie in this slightly confused
state of mind made him want to take care of her even more.
The question and answer round seemed to have come to an end,
and Matt hadn't seen Lizzie for over a week and hadn't slept
with her for nearly two. He leant across and kissed her, and
then immediately recoiled. When he was with Lizzie it was
easy to forget to be furtive.
As the tube rattled through central London, Lizzie knew she
should have said no. But Clare was at work and things really
couldn't get any worse. But unknown to him this was the
grande finale. Something for her to remember him by. She
knew now what she had to do.
chapter

C-lare was worried. Something wasn't quite right with Lizzie.
In fact, thinking about it, it was precisely the reverse. After
barely a couple of weeks of moping and generally dodging
anything except work and their video collection, it appeared
she'd decided to take a deep breath and move on. Yet Clare
sensed all was not well in Lizziedom.
However many times she told herself not to be silly, Clare
was disappointed that Lizzie hadn't felt she could open up to
her after everything they'd been through together. Instead she'd
erected an invisible wall, and it hurt every time Clare ran into
it. She'd been careful not to crowd her, to give her enough of
her precious space, and done her utmost not to interfere, but
they were best friends for God's sake. If Lizzie was suffering
then so was Clare.
Bruised ego and over-sensitivity aside, she had to admit
that objectively Lizzie was doing OK. But Clare was beginning
to resent the fact that her job almost always prevented her
from physically being there for Lizzie. What if Lizzie needed
a spontaneous heart-to-heart at the kettle? Or over a cup of tea
and toasted muffin? She was an expert in outwardly keeping
it together in a crisis. The sort of person that Clare would happily
have followed into the trenches. But no one was invincible.
Maybe this time she'd fallen apart and Clare had been too
busy at the restaurant to notice.
By the middle of the afternoon Clare had wound herself up
enough to organise someone to cover for her. This morning
Lizzie had announced she was having a quiet evening in and
Clare was going home to join her. Nostalgic for a girls' night
in, she stopped off at the florist, followed by the off-licence
for wine and ice-cream. She was back in the best-friend business.
To
Clare's relief the front door wasn't double-locked. On the
tube she'd had visions of Lizzie trading in the remote control
for a night out, leaving her to wallow in calories and concern
on her own.
'Hey, babe, I'm home.'
Clare popped her head round the door to Lizzie's study, only
to find it empty. More like deserted. The computer was off and
there was no tell-tale half-started cup of tepid tea on the desk.
She wasn't prostrate on the sofa upstairs either.
'Liz--Liz...'
She increased her volume.
'Lizzie?'
Surely she wasn't in bed? It was only five-thirty--a little late
for an afternoon nap and very early for even the earliest of
nights. Maybe she'd developed one of her migraines? Clare felt
guilty. She should have been taking more notice. For all she
knew this was the time of day when Lizzie was mid-nervous
breakdown.
Clare flicked the kettle switch and was just making a cup
of tea to take upstairs in her new role as Florence Nightingale
when lizzie, appeared at her side in a white waffle bathrobe
and slippers, looking a little dishevelled but not altogether
pale and pathetic. Maybe she had a fever? Clare was no nurse,
but Lizzie looked a little flushed and very tired. Poor girl. She
really was suffering.
'You're home...'
A good sign, Clare thought. Lizzie was clearly still capable
of stating the obvious.
'Is everything OK?' Lizzie sounded concerned and, if Clare
was being over-analytical, a little confused. Maybe she'd been
drinking?
'God, yes, fine. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. It's just
well...I was thinking about things this afternoon and I've decided
that I haven't been looking after you properly.'
'I thought you were working late tonight?'
'I was, but I got someone in to cover for me. I thought I'd
come home early and we could spend the evening together. I'm
just sorry that I've been so busy recently. You've been having
a crisis and I've been at work.'
Clare walked over and gave Lizzie a hug. It was like hugging
a tree trunk--a thin tree trunk--more of a sapling, in actual
fact--resplendent in white waffle but wooden, that was the
point. However she tried to dress it up, the fact was that Lizzie
didn't hug her back. At all. Clare was determined not to take
it personally. After all, they had years of friendship behind
them. She wasn't going to get hung up about one flipping hug.
Maybe she was the one having the nervous breakdown and
Lizzie was fine.
'You shouldn't have got up. Go back up to bed. I'll bring
you a cup of tea in a minute. I thought we could do duvets on
the sofa and get a pizza delivered if you feel up to it. I've
bought ice-cream.'
All of a sudden Lizzie looked paler and greyer. Maybe the
pizza wasn't such a good idea.
'Or we can just chat, or...whatever you like. You choose. You
really haven't been yourself lately.'
'No, I'm fine. It's fine. It's been a weird few weeks. Pizza
would be lovely...'
Lizzie felt terrible. Clare was going for mate-of-the-year, yet
any second now she'd discover that her best friend had been
lying to her and, while Lizzie had tried to convince herself that
she hadn't actually lied per se, because Clare hadn't asked her
a direct question about what was happening, now, standing a
few feet from her best buddy, she was feeling very small and
169


very dishonest indeed. She only hoped that Matt had been listening
from the landing and seen fit to hide himself somewhere.
Although, thinking about it, there definitely wasn't any
space in her wardrobe, or under her bed, and the laundry basket
would only have just about been big enough to provide a
suitable hideaway for Paddington Bear.
'Great. Now, why don't you go and rest? I'll come and
wake you when I've finished faffing down here and we can
argue over toppings. I'll even let you have pineapple on half of it if you want.' It was an overwhelming gesture of love and
compromise. Clare hated pineapple.
'Really, no--I'm fine down here. It's nice to see you...'
Lizzie spotted the gerberas in the sink. 'Oh, Clare, you've
bought me flowers. You shouldn't have...' Lizzie wished she
hadn't. She was feeling more guilt-ridden by the second. 'How
are things at work?'
Lizzie perched on the sofa and sipped at her mug of tea.
Clare totally ignored her question.
'Well, at least let me go and get your duvet so you can snuggle
up down here.'
'No, no. Don't worry. I'm fine.'
'It's no trouble at all. It'll take me ten seconds.'
'Really, I'm fine,' Lizzie snapped.
And when Clare got over the initial shock she was suspicious.
She changed tack and put her sympathy to one side. It
hadn't got her anywhere so far.
'Elizabeth Ford, there's no need to bite my head off. Listen,
you're a grown-up, and you pay good money to live here, and
no one--certainly not me--is going to bring you your duvet
or force you to go back to bed if you don't want to. But I know
you well enough to know that something's up. And, while I
can't make you tell me anything, I think I deserve a little bit
of honesty. I'm worried. You've got a lot on your plate and I'm
only trying to help, but if you'd rather battle on by yourself then
that's fine.'
The way Clare spat the last sentence out, Lizzie knew that
it wasn't fine at all.
Now she'd pissed Clare off and soon Matt wasn't going to
be too fond of her either. The master plan was backfiring.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Clare's expression instantly softened.
'Sorry.
I didn't mean to shout.'
'No, it's fine. Sorry. I haven't been altogether up front with
you recently. I didn't think I needed to tell you because I
thought it wouldn't be necessary, I thought I could deal with
everything on my own, but obviously I can't.' Lizzie wiped her
tears on her sleeve.
Clare felt herself tense with concern. Her hunch had been
vindicated. There was something going on.
'Tell me what?'
'The reason I don't want you to go upstairs is because there's
someone up there.'
'Upstairs...'
Suddenly she understood. Clare was slightly taken aback,
but if Lizzie needed to have sex to get over her recent setback
then who was she to stand in her way? As she got used to the
idea her mood transformed. The jammy so and so. She should
have guessed--the rebound reaction was certainly well tried
and tested. Clare wondered what he was like. She giggled as
she tried to picture the current occupant of Lizzie's bed. It all
made sense now. Did Lizzie honestly think she was so judgmental?
If anything she was a little envious. Sometimes she
wished she could be a little less uptight about the whole meaningless
sex thing. But the last time she'd had a one-night stand
was last century. Intimacy scared her. It could only upset the
even keel which had taken her over a year to establish. Clare
Williamson had become a self-protection guru.
'Good on you, Liz. Well--who is he and where did you find
him?'
Clare smiled encouragingly at Lizzie, who couldn't have
been looking any more grave if she'd tried. It was only sex,
for heaven's sake, not nuclear war. And this was the sort of excitement
that Clare was only too happy to enjoy vicariously.
'Actually, you know him already.'
Clare racked her brains for eligible young and not so young
men. Then she moved onto the not so eligible category. It
couldn't be Colin from downstairs. He was definitely one hundred
per cent gay. She stared at Lizzie, hoping for something
in her expression to give her a clue. But as Lizzie refused to
meet her gaze Clare's concern turned to anger. Anger was
shortly followed by fury. The changes of mood seemed beyond
her control. Before she knew it she was shouting. Loudly.
'It's him, isn't it? You're still fucking Matt.'

Lizzie recoiled at the undiluted aggression now coming
from Clare. And only a minute ago she'd been standing there
claiming that she wanted to help.
'How could you, Liz? He's married. He's got a wife. After
everything I've been through. All the tears I cried on your
shoulder. I can't believe you...and to think that I came home
early because I was worried about you... Jesus, Liz. What the
fuck are you playing at?'
Lizzie didn't think she'd ever seen Clare so furious and
upset all at once. Instinctively she tried to calm things down.
'I'm sorry, Clare...'
'Well, obviously not that fucking sorry. I can't believe you.
How the fuck did you get to be an agony aunt in the first place?
You don't give a shit about anybody but yourself.'
'I wanted to tell you, but... Look...it's over now. I should've
listened to you earlier. You were right; it can never work out...'
Lizzie wondered if Clare was actually listening. Her eyes
were dancing with rage and disappointment.
'Really, this afternoon was the last time. I know I've been
stupid, but I can't help it. I love him and I suppose I was hop,
ing for a miracle.'
'Screw up your life. See if I fucking care.'
Clare couldn't listen any more. Everything was muted by
the sound of blood rushing furiously in her ears. She stormed
past Lizzie, up the stairs and into her room. Her door slammed.
Lizzie wanted to follow her, but first she had to usher Matt out
of the war zone.
He was dressed and sitting on her bed quietly. From his
shell-shocked and timid demeanour Lizzie imagined he'd
heard every syllable.
'Oops.' It was English understatement at its most masterful.
Lizzie
sat down next to him. She was shaking. 'I think I'm
going to throw up.'
'I'd better go.'
Lizzie couldn't look him in the eye. Instead she spoke directly
to his shoulder. 1 don't think this is going to work any
more. Go back to Rachel. Give it your best shot. Maybe there's
still a chance. You don't need all this extra hassle...and neither
dol.'
Matt looked at Lizzie incredulously. 'You're upset. You
don't know what you're saying.'
'I do know. I just should have said it a lot earlier.'
'But you just told Clare that you loved me.'
'God, I was stupid to see you again once I knew... Anyway
if you were eavesdropping properly you'll also know that I told
her that this afternoon was the last time.'
'I'll call you tomorrow.'
'Don't bother.'
'I'll call you tomorrow.' Matt gave Lizzie a kiss and then
did a good job of getting the hell out of the flat.
The front lock had barely clicked shut when Lizzie knocked
on Clare's door. There was no answer. But Lizzie knew she was
in there. She just started talking.
'Clare. Please. Let me explain. I couldn't tell you because
I knew how you'd react. I wanted to. I can't bear it when we
fight.'(
'Well, you should have thought about that before you opted
to be the other woman.'
Clare's voice was cold and controlled. On balance, Lizzie
thought she preferred the hysterical shouting and swearing
stage.
'It's complicated. More complicated than you know. I know
I've got to end it. I have ended it. But it's like we can't keep
away from each other. I know it doesn't make sense, and it's
been hell trying to deal with it all by myself.'
'It hasn't been great being the one who's left out either, believe
me.'
'I'm so sorry, Clare. Please, let's get that pizza. Let's talk.'
'You've left it a bit late, don't you think? If you want time
on your own, you've got it. As much as you bloody well like.
Get him to invent a business trip. Then you two can shag all
day, every day and run around the flat with no clothes on while
his wife sits at home. Don't worry. I realise there isn't room
in your love triangle for anyone else...'
Clare finally opened the door to her room and to Lizzie's
horror she could see that she had been crying. Worse still, she
had packed a bag.
'If I hadn't come home early today you wouldn't have told
me, would you? No, of course you wouldn't. Why not? Because
you knew how I would take it. Badly. You of all people.
You know how gutted I was when I found out that Joe had been
unfaithful. I know you were lured in unsuspectingly at the beginning,
and I was here for you, but for the last few weeks
you've been totally selfish. You've hurt me, you'll hurt his
wife, you'll hurt him, you'll hurt yourself. It's a no-win situation
for a mistress...'
Mistress. The word resounded for a second as Clare paused
for breath mid-tirade. Labels, in Lizzie's opinion, were for
clothes. And this was the ultimate in unfashionable brands.
'Do you know what hurts the most?'
Clare paused for a split second. Lizzie waited. She didn't
trust herself to speak. Whatever she said at this point was
bound to be wrong.
'That you knew all that. You knew exactly what you were
doing and yet you still carried on. Day after day after day.
Look, I know I'm probably overreacting, but I need some time
to calm down and I can't do it here. I'm going home. You blew
me away with this one. I'm sorry, Liz, but I'm really disappointed
in you.'
Frozen to the spot, she listened to Clare walking down the
stairs, her feet heavy with disgust. The door slammed. Lizzie
was alone. All alone. In every sense of the word. She slumped
to the floor and sobbed.
chapter

When the doorbell rang eleven days after that fateful Wednesday
Lizzie was in full tracksuit-bottomed despair and currently
running the experiment on her hair that she had so often
wondered about. Apparently if you left it for long enough it
sort of washed itself. She was still waiting. And when Lizzie
saw Matt standing forlornly on the doorstep she wished she
hadn't let herself go quite so much. Then again, she knew she
had to send him away, however hard it felt. She'd managed to
ignore the faceless phone messages and e-mails, but this was
much harder. Matt followed her up the stairs in silence, and as
they sat down opposite each other in the sitting room he was
the first to speak.,
'How are you?'
She looked terrible. She knew she did. But she also knew
that she had to be strong. Matt was worried.
'Fine.'
'I wish I was...'
Lizzie was doing a very good impression of a bloodhound.
Her nose was indulging itself in the faintest trace of the familiar
aftershave that had followed him up the stairs. Drawing on

L
Name & Address Withheld175

every milligram of will-power, she resisted the now almost
compulsive urge she had to bound over to the chair and dissolve
into his chest. Her head was aching with the effort.
'I love you, Lizzie. I can't stop thinking about you. Even
more now than before.' It was true. Matt felt as if he was wading
knee-deep through mud on a daily basis. He'd never felt
like this before. His self-diagnosis: lovesick with a hint of
self-loathing. Prognosis: apparently terminal. He didn't know
what to do. He was running on instinct.
Lizzie was torn. In all her years of unfulfilled dating--and
there had been many--the only people who'd been this keen
on her had been the ones that she wasn't really interested in at
all. Perhaps she had stumbled unsuspectingly into the plot of
a Shakespearean tale of unrequited love, a West End musical,
or even an opera. She'd seen it all before. Boy meets girl, circumstances--convention,
religion, family feud, skin colour,
class--dictate that they can't be together, so they agonise to
close friends, children and wild animals of the forest, before
moping--and singing--for about an hour and then, after the interval, just when they think they can't cope any more, something
happens.
Heartache had always been big business. But there was no
happy ending in sight. Not in Putney. Not today.
'You only think you love me. We both know it's the thing
you can't have that you always want the most.'
'I don't understand. What's changed?' Here he was, finally
face to face with Lizzie, and she remained as steely as she'd
been when he'd seen her last. She couldn't really mean it, but
he didn't know how to prove it. And the only person in the
world that he could confide in was sitting opposite him, her
arms firmly folded.
The...' Even at this intensely painful time Lizzie could see
the funny side of this statement. A few more chocolate biscuits
and a velour tracksuit and Waynetta Slob would have a serious
rival vying for her place on the three-piece suite. 'Matt,
you tricked me. I've never been interested in being the other
woman. Ever. I want to be the only woman. The one. The one
you can't live without. The one you have to tear yourself away
176
Jane Sigaloff


from in the morning and the one you want to come home to at
night. I can't deal with being plan B, the one in reserve, second
best.'
'Liz, it was an accident--'
Matt interrupted himself. He'd done it again. As soon as his
mouth had closed behind the third syllable he'd known it was
a mistake. He started again. Second time lucky.
'What I mean is that I wasn't looking for you. I didn't want
to start a double life. But then we met and I knew. I don't want
you both. I just want you.'
Lizzie wanted to fling her arms around him and tell him it
would all work out, but this was not the time for her to suffer
a moment of weakness. She'd indulged in one of those and
look where it had got her. She went on the offensive.
'Why do men do it? Apart from the ego thing, of course, and
the fact that most men can be flattered into bed if the woman
is pretty enough. Make that keen enough. The fact that your
wife was trusting in you while you were in bed with me makes
me feel like shit. And no one gave me a choice until it was too
late.'
'Believe me, Liz, I've suffered too.'
'Sure you have. Must be really tough having to remember
who it is you're shagging.'
Matt shook his head. He could see where she was coming
from, but it wasn't like that at all. He also knew that trying to
tell her when she was in this sort of mood would be futile.
'I'm trying to work a way out of this mess.'
'You're only saying that because now I'm telling you I'm
no longer an option. Frankly, you might as well stay with
Rachel. You've probably gone and put me on some sort of
pedestal by now, and I'm probably no better than her in lots
of ways. I'm just the forbidden fruit...'
'You're much better.'
Lizzie was playing her role to perfection. A bit of her wished
she wasn't being quite so convincing, although it was good to
know that she could remain articulate in the face of a crisis.
Usually she came up with her best lines when she was relat
Name & Address Withheld177

ing events to a third party, a good couple of hours after the confrontation
had finished.
'Don't kid yourself. Believe me, underneath my exciting
mistress veneer I'm just the same. I have bad breath in the
morning and armpit stubble. I can just choose to be at my
moodiest when you're at home or in the office. Mistresses
aren't nicer or better than wives, you just see them less. The
whole concept is based on fantasy and it's flawed.'
'I thought we were worth fighting for. I thought things were
going really well... I love you, Lizzie. I know you love me too.
I want us to work, and so do you. I can feel it.'
The words just hung in the air. He didn't want to leave. She
sat back in her chair and began an intense study of her cuticles.
Well, that was how it appeared. She was actually concentrating
on not crying. No wonder people ignored their
principles when it suited them. Doing the right thing was the
hardest thing she'd ever had to do. The tension was unbearable.
It was minutes before Matt broke the deadlock. His voice
was calmer again.
'You're just saying that it's over, Liz, you don't mean it.'
Lizzie took a deep breath.
'I do mean it. We had fun. You were going through a bad
patch, but it doesn't matter how you dress it up--you're married
to and living with someone else. Someone that's not me.
I just think you owe it to yourself and to Rachel to give it your
best shot. You can't just walk away. Believe it or not, I'm the
easy option.'
Mart's body was now hunched in defeat. 'Is this what you
really want?'
Her heart was shouting No. No. No. No. No. Lizzie ignored
it. It didn't deserve a fair hearing. So far it had only got her
into trouble. 'Look, we had great sex. We had a laugh. But
we've only known each other for a few months. It was just a
fling. An affair.'
'An affair to remember?' Matt couldn't resist finishing off
the 1957 film title. He did it automatically and with no enthusiasm.
Lizzie's
heart felt as if it was breaking, but she knew that
178Jane Sigaloff

this was damage limitation. She forced herself to think of the
repercussions of another moment of weakness. She couldn't
lock herself away with Matt for ever. She had to get up every
morning and face the world.
Lizzie was silent as Matt finally got to his feet, numb in defeat.
This wasn't how he'd envisaged the end of this afternoon
at all. In his version there was more smiling--laughter, even--
promises, a future, kissing--yes, lots of kissing. He could feel
himself shaking as he leant over and kissed her tenderly,
breathing in slowly for a fix of her smell. She was motionless.
'Take care, Lizzie...' Just saying her name out loud made
him want to cry. 'I'm only leaving now because you're telling
me to, and because, most importantly, I want you to be happy,
not because I want to go. And later, if you think you've made
a mistake, you know where to find me. I knew it wouldn't be
easy, but I really believed we could get through this together.
You are the best thing that ever happened to me. Maybe I just
don't deserve you.'
He turned and walked to the door. His eyes were wet with
tears that Lizzie couldn't see. He didn't know where he was
going. His feet were on automatic pilot. He was no longer
aware of his surroundings.
It was the worst moment of Lizzie's life. What on earth did
she want? An Academy Award? A Joan of Arc statuette for services
to martyrdom? What if he had been it? What if he was
'the one'? She knew that it was an old-fashioned concept, but
deep down she was just an old-fashioned girl.
chapter

Mornings became afternoons and afternoons became evenings.
The only consolation was she knew she wasn't alone in
her suffering. She only had to watch EastEnders to know that
what she was going through would've been ten times worse if
she'd lived in Albert Square.
She shouldn't have been so surprised--after all, she'd gone
from born-again-virgin to mistress and back again in under
three months. But why hadn't she learned from previous mistakes?
She'd known from an early age not to take things out
of the oven without wearing oven gloves, she'd discovered to
her cost that tapered trousers were never flattering, bitter experience
had taught not to drink beer after champagne or wine,
and yet she still hadn't worked out how to avoid heartache.
All this time on her own wasn't helping. In the age of communication
Clare was single-handedly resisting all Lizzie's attempts
to get in touch. Worse still, she'd been back to the flat,
collected more stuff and hadn't even left a note. Lizzie had
apologised repeatedly, and couldn't manage another morsel of
humble pie, but in Clare's eyes she'd betrayed the sisterhood
and purgatory wasn't over yet. But if Clare was stubbornly de
180
Jane Sigaloff


termined to take the side of a woman she'd never even met, let
alone lived with, Lizzie knew she was better off on her own.
Clare would calm down eventually. Her high horse always ran
out of steam before the final fence.
February became March and April beckoned with the promise
of warmer, longer days, and as a slim woman oozing vitality
and toned thighs jogged past Lizzie she knew it was
time for the next phase. New me. New trainers. New attitude.
Time to get fit for life. Or at least buy all the gear.

Lizzie's daily run ritual was on its fourth consecutive day
and she was already feeling a lot better. Her heart and liver
were enjoying her overture to normality, and once again there
was colour in her cheeks. Quite a lot of colour. They were currently
deep crimson as her capillaries did their best to radiate
as much heat as they could before her body overheated. As with
everything, Lizzie had thrown herself into this running lark one
hundred and ten per cent and right now her body was trying
to keep up with her mental ambition. Once Lizzie concentrated
on breathing, not tripping over and retaining, at least a shred
of finesse she had no energy or mental space left for worry.
Running had become her therapy. Sanity was round the corner.
Plus, while she might end up terminally single, at least she
might have the legs of Anna Koumikova for company.
She turned the corner into Oxford Road, her arms still
pumping like pistons while her legs, now heavy with exertion,
forced themselves along behind her. Her heart was pounding
and a moustache of sweat had not altogether alluringly graced her top lip. She could taste the salt and was anticipating the
welcome surge of her power shower when Colin pulled up
alongside her in his red convertible.
Timing was everything.
'Hey, is that Liz Ford or Liz Colgan?' If you're in a hurry I
can offer you a lift home.'
It could only be one hundred metres to her front door, yet
if he hadn't been so obviously mocking her Lizzie would've
been tempted. Instead she reduced her already snail-like pace
to a sort of bouncing around on the spot movement while
stretching her arms across her body, pretending to be warming
down.
'What on earth has driven you to exercising outdoors? Why
do you think they invented the running machine? It's much less
painful if you can watch MTV at the same time!'
Colin was a confirmed gym-user, although Lizzie suspected
that his frequent visits also included a generous helping of tight
arse and perfect pec spotting. Thankfully he didn't ask her how
far she'd run. She knew it was a pitiful distance, but it was definitely
an improvement on nothing, and judging by the pounding
in her chest it was quite sufficient exercise for her
out-of-shape heart. He revved up and parallel parked with incredible
speed and accuracy before leaping out and opening
the gate for Lizzie, who had used her last ounce of competitive
spirit to get there before him and was currently bent over
in the leapfrog position, desperately trying to get enough air
to her lungs to prevent herself from passing out.

Colin, it seemed, wanted a chat. For once Lizzie was not at
her speed-talking best.
'What have you guys been up to? I haven't set eyes on either
of you for ages, let alone managed a conversation.'
'Fine...' Breathe in...and out... 'I'm fine...' And again... 'Been through a bit of a rough patch... But...' Breathe... 'Seem
to be pulling through.'
Lizzie was proud of herself. A week ago she would have
been in tears at this point. Any grimaces now were attributable
to her calf muscles currently smarting rather painfully as she
allowed herself to stiffen up.
'Fancy a quick cup of tea?'
He didn't actually say...and a gossip...but it was implied. Tea
without talk for Colin would be as alien a concept as a holiday
without sunshine--although Lizzie was sure that his year
round healthy skin tone was sustained with the help of fake tan
and solarium minutes.
'Or maybe something colder. Cranberry? Elderflower?'
Lizzie smiled. Most men wouldn't know an elderflower if it
came up and punched them in the face. Meanwhile Colin was
182Jane Sigaloff

mentally running through his cordial collection, trying to tempt
Lizzie into his flat. 'Lime...Ribena?'
He was standing at the top of the stairs that led down to his
front door, awaiting her decision. Lizzie looked down at her
running top, which was now attractively a darker shade of red
under her arms and breasts and completely stuck to her back.
She wiped the sweat from her temples into her hairline. Jane
Fonda must have had her pores somewhere else. Even in her
feel-the-burn heyday you never really saw her sweat. A little
glow, attractive breathlessness and maybe even a few droplets
glistening on her cheeks and chest. But then Lizzie clung to
the belief that if you weren't totally dishevelled at the end of
a run then you hadn't been working hard enough.
'Might nip upstairs for a quick shower first. Don't think
you'd want me sweating all over your furniture in my current
state.'
Was that relief on Colin's face? Lizzie thought it was.
'OK. Just pop down when you're done.'
As Lizzie showered she was thankful that she'd run into a
familiar face. For starters she'd be tempted to put on some of
her smarter clothes, and secondly Colin always made her
laugh. Usually at some outrageous and highly improbable tale
of sexual conquest which made Lizzie feel totally heterosexually
inadequate but quite impressed all the same.
For once she had a story to tell, but instinct told her to leave
it. It hadn't exactly been one of her proudest relationship moments,
and continuing to see him after she'd discovered that
he was married meant that she'd sort of shot herself in the foot
as far as getting any sympathy was concerned. She reached for
her exfoliator and scrubbed hard. Twenty-first century self
flagellation at its best.

'Well, well, well.' If Colin was a witch he would have been
cackling. 'You have been busy. Who'd have thought the agony
aunt upstairs would've got herself embroiled in a love triangle...?'
A
long burst of laughter. From Colin, not Lizzie. She hadn' t
meant to tell him, yet she'd found herself confessing before
she'd even finished her first drink.
'It's no wonder you're out running, trying to sweat the guilt
out of your system. Well done for coming home so soon. I think
I'd have been tempted to do a Forrest Gump.' His eyes radiated
mischief and the sort of joy that can only be derived from
someone else's misfortune.
Lizzie poured herself another coffee and wondered whether,
even in light of her recent burst of activity, consuming a third
biscuit would just be plain greedy. This confessional stuff was
making her very hungry, and at least if she was eating she
might not incriminate herself any further. She hadn't told him
the bit about knowing who Mart's wife was yet, but it had been
a relief to get the rest of it off her chest, and for a few minutes
it didn't seem like such a big deal at all.
'So, tell me--was he gorgeous?' Colin wanted details.
'Well, I'm not sure that he'd be your type, but, yes...' Lizzie
sighed. 'He was definitely mine...except for the having a wife
bit.' Sometimes the whole episode almost sounded surreal. It
almost felt as if she was talking about someone else's life.
Colin roared with laughter. 'Oh, well, no one said love was
perfect, darling...' Spotting a flicker of sadness in Lizzie's
eyes, he toned it down. 'Poor you. You should've come down
and cried on my shoulder weeks ago. I've had my heart broken
more times than most.' And he was off. Colin could regale
you with stories of doomed relationships for as long as you had
and, listening to him, Lizzie felt positively pedestrian.
Lizzie didn't know whether she could attribute it to the biscuits,
human company, Colin's cat redressing her recent affection
deficit, or his candid tales of love-gone-wrong, but she
was feeling loads better. Back in her own flat, she made a decision
to analyse less and do more. Self-pity was so last season.
Determined to make some changes, Lizzie called Clare's
mobile. Clare obviously wasn't paying attention, or was expecting
someone else to call, because she answered it straight
away.
'Hello?'
184

Jane Sigaloff


'Clare?' Lizzie could barely contain her excitement. 'It's
me--Liz. How are you?'
'Knackered. Totally shagged. Lunchtime was mad today.
We had a private party in and they've only just gone.'
It was all great. Clare was being civil. They were almost having
a normal conversation. Maybe the time and healing thing
had finally happened. 'Packed on a Sunday--that's great for
business.'
'Suppose so. What do you want, anyway?'
OK, so maybe it had all been too good to be true. 'Just
thought I'd say hi. Remind you that I miss you and want you
to come home. The usual.'
'Oh. Right. You sound quite perky. Everything OK?'
'Fine. I've just been for a run, and I suppose I'm chuffed
that you a) answered the phone when you knew it was me and
b) didn't hang up straight away. Please come home and forgive
me.' Lizzie was burbling.
Clare soon halted her improving mood in its tracks. 'Not that
simple, Liz.'
'Why not? I know I was wrong...but I can only apologise
so many times before it gets boring.'
'I know you're sorry, and I'm glad you are, but so you
should be...'
Lizzie could feel herself bristling. She'd made a mistake, a
big one, but surely she'd paid the price. It must be time to move
on now.
'Look, I know you think I'm trying to be difficult, and I
know it looks like I've overreacted, but it must've triggered off
a whole lot of emotion that I had suppressed over the last two
years. Stuff that I have to deal with. I used to think you were
pretty much perfect. And then--well, you let me down. I know
it sounds extreme, and I'm sure if Joe hadn't done what he did
then this wouldn't be happening. But he did and it is. I just need
time.'
Oh, no, this was worse...emotional stuff...the old letting me
and letting yourself down line. Guaranteed since school to
make Lizzie feel utterly terrible.
'Can't we just put it behind us now? Move on.'
185


Lizzie could sort of see where Clare was coming from, but
she wasn't asking her to have her babies, just to share a flat
with her.
'Can't you see, Liz? I just need some time to deal with this
my way.'
But she'd had loads of time. Right, this was it. Lizzie was
going to have to take a chance and try and restore some perspective
to the situation.
'You're not going to like this, but I do think you're overreacting...'
Lizzie
held her breath, braced herself, and waited for Clare
to explode. She didn't. Lizzie continued with some trepidation.
But she had to say it. She couldn't just sit back and let Clare
contemplate her navel for months and months while she started
talking to herself every morning.
'You're my best friend. And I'm sorry I'm not perfect. Believe
me, it would be far easier if I was. But people make mistakes
every day. I made a mistake. I'm sorry I let you down-- but, believe me, I let myself down even more. And I miss you.'
'I'm thinking about it Liz. But at the moment I'm sort of
house-sitting for a friend near work. I'll pay my rent--don't
worry, I won't leave you in the lurch. But maybe it's time for
a change. Maybe it's time we didn't live in each other's pockets
any more.'
'Oh. Well.' Lizzie felt sick as the latest plot twist in Her
Life--The Soap Opera was revealed. She didn't want to be
alone permanently. 'Give it some more time and then see how
you feel. There's no need to decide anything now...' Lizzie was
doing her best to hide her disappointment. 'In the meantime
how about dinner some time? I'll cook.'
'Maybe...that would be nice...I'll call you.'
Would she? Lizzie wondered.
Lizzie could feel her frustration and disappointment transforming
into anger. Maybe she'd be better off just getting on
with everything on her own. Maybe Clare was right. Maybe
this had all been a blessing in disguise.
chapter

Dear Lizzie
Two simple words. But two words that seemed to take him
to the edge of a precipice that he couldn't quite bring himself
to look over. And just because he'd started it didn't mean he
had to finish. He thought he knew what he wanted to say and
then, on reflection, it was always the same: too distant, too
clingy, too cliche'd, too desperate. Just too...too bloody difficult.
Matt
doodled on the bottom half of the page as he waited
for it to get late enough for him leave the office. He was at one
of life's crossroads, only he seemed to have arrived there in a
fuel crisis and every time he made a move in one direction
something pulled him back. He loved Rachel like he loved Star
Wars and Mars bars, but he was in love with Lizzie. But if she
said that she didn't love him, that she didn't want him, then he
had to deal with that.
He scrunched up his latest attempt at a letter and slam
dunked it into the wastepaper bin, where it started a second
layer of paper balls. He was fed up with pretending he didn't
care. He cared more than he could bear to admit to himself.
Because if it mattered then he had a lot to lose. If he tried to
make things work with Rachel he wasn't being true to himself.
If he went for Lizzie he might only be left with memories
of them both. He leant forward and rested his forehead on
the desk.
His head ached.

Life has more dimensions if you have oestrogen...
Lizzie was deep in this week's column.
Women agonise over details that men haven't even noticed
and, while you can argue that it makes life more fulfilling, unfortunately
it often makes things more complicated. The solution
is simple enough. Teach yourself to sit back and enjoy the
moment before it passes you by altogether. Stop beating yourself
up. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.
Judging by the contents of my in-tray, you all want to know
how to shake up your sex lives. You 're tired, you 're bored,
and, most amusingly of all---from where I'm standing, at
least--you all think I have the answers. But my relationship
saving tactic for today is a turn-off of the television variety.
Ditch that remote. For starters, men by their own admission
can only do one thing at a time. Secondly, take off your watch.
How can you possibly be totally absorbed in the moment if you
know exactly how many minutes there are to go until the ten
o'clock news?
Sex isn 't something to fill the gap between the regional
weather and The West Wing. It's not best slotted into the half
hour before you go to sleep, or squeezed into your schedule
before you shower in the morning. Enjoy, cherish, immerse and
then lose yourself in the moment. We've all been found guilty
in the past. Yes, we've all taken advantage of our ability to
multi-skill and planned something else while on the job. Reminded
ourselves to buy risotto rice when we are next in the
supermarket, to pick up the jacket that has been languishing
at the dry cleaners for weeks, to ask the man you are currently
straddling whether he 'd like to book tickets for the theatre, or
whether he might be interested in accompanying you to the new
exhibition at the Tate Modern which you have just read about
in last week's Sunday supplement.
But when you are kissing your man you should be a million
miles away from your shopping list. Remember that first time ?
Those teenage kissing marathons? When the world stood still
until you had finished? Granted, the only other potentially
pressing concerns were probably homework and curfews-- both of which were better off forgotten. But as you get older
achieving good sex is all about focusing your mind. If you are
a man there is no other way. In order to be victorious on the
pitch, on the sofa or under the duvet you need to be concentrating
one hundred per cent on the job in hand, in utero, etc.
etc....
Lizzie was back on track. It was 7:00 p.m. and still sunny.
The clocks had changed. Even the air in Putney was smelling
sweeter. Summer was round corner and her self-esteem was
on its way back from its spring break.

A couple of glasses of Chilean Chardonnay over lunch in
the uncharacteristically warm April sunshine and Rachel was
feeling quite sentimental about life. A cocktail of alcohol and
UV rays was all it took. Everything seemed to be coming together.
Saint Will of Battersea was working his magic, plus she
was finally getting Matthew back where he belonged. Only
now did she realise how much she'd missed her anchor, and
his reluctance had made him all the more desirable. This time
she'd appreciate the. people around her. She smiled to herself.
Lizzie Ford was a lifesaver.
Rachel leant back in her chair and re-read the e-mail on her
screen. She hovered above the 'send' icon before letting her
mouse give it the go-ahead. It was a bit more gushing than she
usually felt comfortable with, but daytime drinking had definitely
softened her edges.

Dear Lizzie
Haven't heard from you in ages. Needless to say
you've been busy helping people round the clock, but
this isn't business--instead, hopefully, it's a bit of plea
sure, and no less than you deserve. I want to invite you
round for dinner. Before you say no, I promise I'm not
a psycho-stalker. I'd just really appreciate the chance
to say thank you in person for all your advice and support.
Everything
you suggested seems to have worked,
and you really helped me to understand how my husband's
mind was working when I hadn't got a clue. Oh,
God, reading this back again, this is so not me. Gush,
gush, gush. If anyone I work with saw this they'd think
I was suffering from an overdose of Oprah. But I bet
you don't get lots of thank-yous.
Anyway, I would really like Matthew to meet the
woman who has given us another chance at being
happy. I can clear most evenings next week--just let
me know when would be good for you.
Look forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours, Rachel x

Lizzie was in her inbox and her heart was pounding in her
chest as it concentrated on pumping all her blood to her temples
in a hopeless attempt to blur her vision and prevent her
from reading the message in front of her. Pulse thumping, she
read the e-mail again. Just to make sure.
And then she woke up...
No, she was awake already. Awake, dressed and breathing.
Why couldn't it all have been a dream instead of a living nightmare?
How could Lizzie contemplate dinner in Turnham
Green? Yet how she could turn Rachel down without emigrating
or befalling a tragic accident and losing her memory?
In the absence of an answer Lizzie employed pure ostrich
tactics and ignored the invitation. When, bored with waiting,
Rachel started e-mailing suggested dates, Lizzie side-stepped
each and every one, concocting a spurious cocktail of last
minute work engagements. After several days of procrastination,
having drafted several versions of varying apology and
in the absence of Clare's spectacular sounding board properties,
Lizzie finally got the balance right.

Rachel
Apologies for the delay in getting back to you but I've
been rushed off my feet at this end.

Efficient, but not brusque enough to arouse suspicion. Lizzie
knew she could do this convincingly.

Thanks for your kind invitation for dinner. I'm very
flattered, but for many reasons I think it would be best
to take a raincheck. General busyness aside, the magazine
does have a policy which strongly discourages
me from meeting my readers in person on a social
basis. I'm really glad that things are going well for you
and Matthew. It's all part of the service.
Yours, Lizzie

She read it back. Perfect. What a relief for her readers and
listeners that she was better at her job than she was at managing
her own life.

Never underestimate the power of a grateful career woman.
Lizzie was at home, answering yet more letters, when her editor
at Out Loud called the same afternoon.
'Darling. How's my favourite columnist doing?'
Lizzie was concerned. Susan never rang her at home. She
didn't see the point. After all, that was--she believed--what
having e-mail and a PA was all about. Lizzie sensed an impossible
deadline on the horizon.
'Fine, thanks.'
'Listen, I won't keep you from your work. I'm sure you're
up to your armpits in dreary heartache, as usual, and far be it
from me to get in the way of you helping people who can't help
themselves.'
Despite all the spin to the contrary, churned out by the press
office, compassion for the general public was not something
that oozed from her editor.
'How can I help?'
'Well, I've just had a conversation with the most charming
woman. It's restored my faith in our readers. She wasn't a fuck
wit at all...'
Lizzie smirked as Susan flouted every convention of political
correctness.
'She's got just the reader profile we want. Anyway, she's so
pleased with you and your advice that she wants to invite you
round for dinner.'
'Really?'
Lizzie's stomach lurched. She'd been outplayed.
'Yes--and by the sound of her I think it'll be quite a decent
dinner at that. She says that she's already asked you by e-mail
but that you're being all professional about mixing business
with pleasure.'
If only Susan knew quite how unprofessional she'd been.
Lizzie mumbled something about confidentiality clauses and
anonymity but was soon interrupted.
'Anyway, I was just calling to say that there's no reason why
you shouldn't go. It's not like you get lots of perks in this job,
is it? You know I'm always impressed by your professional attitude,
but for God's sake lighten up. Take some of your own
advice and be cool, chill out, whatever... Where was I? Oh,
yes--this woman...what was she called...I wrote it on a Post
it here somewhere... Jesus... Why is it you can never find these
things when you want them? I am practically drowning in
paper. God knows why I have the only PA in the country who
is allergic to filing... You wouldn't believe how messy my desk
is... Got it... Yes, this woman... Rachel, I think my writing
says...yes, Rachel...seems genuine and charming and--well,
normal in a you and I, PLU sort of way.'
Lizzie flinched involuntarily. She hated all these 'in'
acronyms. Especially when they meant 'People Like Us'. If it
was a time-saving thing, it didn't take much longer to say all
three words, but more importantly it was the smug middle
class inference that really got to her. Them and Us. Fine if you
192
Jane Sigaloff


were a Shark or a Jet, a Greaser or a Soc, or even a Capulet or
a Montague. Not fine if you ran a magazine and lived in Notting
Hill. Plus Lizzie resented the fact that Susan thought that
she and Lizzie were in the same bracket.
'Look, she only wants a chance to say thank you, and it's
not like she's offering you a suitcase full of used twenty-pound
notes or a stolen Cartier wristwatch, is it?'
Lizzie couldn't help but laugh at this latest analogy. She
liked Susan. She might at times be a veritable caricature of herself,
but at least she was consistently eccentric and her heart
was usually in the right sort of place.
'No...I suppose not. Thanks.'
Lizzie thought she should at least try and sound grateful.
'Anyway, in case you've been turning down dinner invitations
by the handful, this particular fan is called Rachel Baker
and I promised her that you'd be in touch soon. I've got her
work number here.'
'OK. I've got a pen...'
Lizzie went along with the charade of writing it down, even
though it was part of the autosignature at the bottom of every
e-mail that Rachel had sent her. How on earth was she going
to get out of this one now?
'One more thing, Liz...'
'Yup?'
'Well, I was sort of thinking--if this woman is as nice as
she sounds on the phone maybe we should be thinking about
running a feature on the two of you. She told me earlier that
she'd never imagined she'd ever consult an agony aunt. An article
might encourage more people like her to write in.'
More people. Looking at the postal debris creatively piled
around her study, Lizzie didn't feel that she was short of letters.
As for an article--no way was she going to advocate that
all members of the West London Love Triangle be featured on
one double-page spread.
'I don't think Rachel would be interested. Dinner's one
thing, but I don't think she's told anyone that she wrote to me
so I can't see her baring all. In some ways she's quite a private
person.'
193


'Well, maybe we could just use her first name and use a
model for the shoot? We could even try for an interview with
the husband instead...'
Lizzie refused to be rattled. She couldn't be bothered to
argue this one out now. It wasn't happening, but she didn't feel
the need to antagonise Susan by being quite so apparently difficult
right now this minute.
'Thanks for calling with that. I'd better get on, or you won't
have next week's column by the end of tomorrow.'
'Marvellous. I loved "Life has more dimensions if you have
oestrogen". Genius. But I guess that's what we pay you for.
Keep up the good work. Maybe I'll run into you in the office
soon? I always seem to be in meetings when you're here.
Maybe it's time we had a lunch?'
, 'That would be great.'
'Excellent. Give Bridget a call. My expanding waistline is
testament to the fact that she is better at booking restaurants
and co-ordinating lunches than she is at filing. Speak to you
soon. Bye.'
'Bye.'
Lizzie had been cornered. As she was discovering to her dismay,
Rachel had the determination and focus to succeed in
every area of her life provided she put her mind to it.
A flurry of e-mails ensued, and it seemed she'd agreed to a
date in about three weeks' time. She still had a few more weekends
to dream up excuses, but it seemed that yet again fate
wasn't on her side. She must have really fucked up in a previous
life. Surely it was someone else's turn now?
chapter

Rachel applied a second coat of lipstick. It was only another
magazine launch, but if things went according to plan she
would finally get to meet the elusive Lizzie Ford.
She marvelled at Lizzie's modesty. Modesty was a quality
that she aspired to add to her repertoire one day. People always
had more admiration for people who kept their trumpets hidden
enigmatically from view, but Rachel always found herself
blowing hers after a few drinks. She could try and dress it up
as reaction to a deep-seated insecurity, but she knew that if she
was being honest she was just a bit of a show-off. She couldn't
bear other people taking the credit for her achievements, and
just batting her eyelashes and saying 'it was nothing really'
seemed like a bit of a waste of time. Why be demure when you
could be direct? She was her own life coach, marketing manager
and spin doctor rolled into one.
Rachel made her way to the bar and perched on a stool with
the launch issue of Blue. If Lizzie didn't show up tonight then
she'd persuade Matt to take her out for dinner after a few free
cocktails. It was a no-lose situation.

Matt listened to his voicemail message one more time and
sighed at no one in particular as Rachel's excited tones radiated
from his speakerphone. There it was again--a quickfire
delivery of directions and instructions. There didn't appear to
be a 'no' option and, as he hadn't been sitting at his desk when
she'd called, now he'd have to go.
He rummaged in his bottom drawer for his sparkling wit.
As he gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of vodka with a
mouthwash chaser he could feel his body waking up. He turned
the volume up on his computer and forced himself to jig about
to a couple of dance anthems at his desk. Wednesday night.
Party time. He was ready.

Lizzie could tell the party was already in full swing before
the lift doors opened on the sixth floor of the Kensington Roof
Gardens. The oasis of calm had been transformed, at undoubtedly
vast expense, for the launch of Blue, and if she was
to believe the call she'd received a few days ago from her very
excitable agent, Robyn Summers, they wanted to sign her up
when her contract at Out Loud expired.
Going to suss out the opposition all seemed a bit cloak and
dagger to Lizzie, and she was sure that Susan Sharpies wouldn't have been thrilled to find her on the guest list of this
particular party, but after a firm arm-twist from Robyn, who
could obviously sense a greater percentage hitting her coffers,
she had promised to make an appearance and check them out.
Lizzie was under no illusions about her negotiating skills.
In a world of sharks and charlatans she was a serious loyalty
case and had never been very good at the cut and thrust of playing
hard to get or selling herself to the highest bidder--a failing
of hers both in and outside of the business arena. She'd
learnt the hard way in her first few relationships, but when it
came to her professional life she was relieved to have the pecuniary
Robyn Summers at hand. The bigger Lizzie's deal, the
more Donna Karan Robyn could have in her wardrobe, and
there was no harm in doing a bit of window-shopping and
nowhere better to start than Kensington.
196Jane Sigaloff

If Lizzie had been blindfolded and dropped into the party
by helicopter she reckoned she'd have been able to guess the
magazine title in a matter of seconds. Blue was the theme--
right down to the garish cocktails that were being mixed. She
took her complimentary launch pack and made a beeline for
the nearest barman.
She hadn't taken more than a couple of sips from her outsize
blue glass of wine when a beautiful dark-haired woman
swept up to her and embraced her like a long-lost friend. Her
mind went into free fall as it tried to link voice and face. She
was normally quite good with the latter, and she was almost
certain that she had never set eyes on this woman before.
'Lizzie? It is you, isn't it? Rumour has it they're trying to
lure you in--and who can blame them? It seems that transfer
deals are no longer limited to footballers. Astrologers, editors
and agony aunts are all fair game these days...'
Lizzie smiled sheepishly in the hope that someone nearby
might enlighten her as to who this woman actually was. But
no one else at the bar had even looked up, and there was no
tell-tale name badge to give Lizzie a clue in her moment of
need. She racked her brains. But the face in front of her really
didn't ring any bells. Not even a little tiny one at the back somewhere.
'A
colleague at my agency has been running Blue's campaign.
It looks fabulous, doesn't it?'
The woman gestured towards six enormous stylised floorto-ceiling
flats which displayed the current, now subliminally
familiar, poster campaign, and Lizzie racked her brain for the
name of the editor of this new title. It couldn't have been more
than an hour since Robyn had reminded Lizzie to introduce
herself...and it was important. So important that she'd scribbled
it on her hand--a terribly unsophisticated habit that she'd
continued from school--but she must have washed it off before
she left home. The surname and first name started with
the same letter... Melissa Matthews? Yes, that sounded right.
But something told Lizzie that this wasn't her. Even in media
terms she was being over-familiar. Lizzie concentrated on not
looking as bewildered as she felt. Instead she focused on taking
all this in her stride.
'Projected sales are good. The whole team at the agency
have pulled together to give it a new feel. Quite a tall order in
such a crowded marketplace, I think you'll agree, but it looks
like all of us at CDH are having a good year. Thought any more
about whether you might want to sign up with Blue when your current contract expires?'
'Us'. 'CDH'. 'Agency'. This woman had to be Rachel.
Without even thinking about what she was doing, Lizzie stole
a glance at her left hand, and sure enough a platinum wedding
band and matching diamond engagement ring winked back at
her. Despite all the e-mails they'd never spoken, and fortunately
for Lizzie no one, not even Susan Sharpies at her most
effervescent, had given Rachel her home number.
'Sorry, Lizzie. You've got no idea who I am, have you? And
why should you? You don't see pictures of me plastered on the
back of buses. I'm Rachel. And I can't tell you how great it is
to finally meet you. I owe you. A prawn?'
Rachel had located a plate of Thai prawns--thankfully non
blue, normal-coloured--arranged radially around a sweet chilli
dip, and Lizzie was relieved at the distraction. She helped herself
to a couple and generously covered them in chilli seeds.
She hoped their potency might take her mind off the fact that
all she seemed to be able to think about at this precise moment
was Rachel and Matt in bed together. Her recovery process,
until ten minutes ago practically complete, had just suffered a
monumental setback.
'Are you still on course for our dinner? I'm half expecting
you to cancel again. I know what it's like. What with my hectic
schedule and your workload it's useless. But you might even
get to meet Matthew tonight. He's supposed to be trying to join
me here later on. All part of my strategy--or should I say your
strategy?--to make him feel more included in my life.' Rachel
was exuding energy and positivity.
'Oh, right. Good idea.' Lizzie, conversely, was in decline.
Just for a split second she wished that she hadn't been quite
so helpful. Her gaze was currently resting on Rachel's enor
198
Jane Sigaloff


mous diamond solitaire as she wondered how Matt had proposed.
She tore her eyes away and concentrated on the woman
she was speaking to. Rachel was dressed immaculately and
stylishly in black, from her head to her Choo encased toes. Designer
black. You could just tell. There wasn't a Top Shop accessory
on her person--or indeed, Lizzie suspected, in her life.
Lizzie smiled broadly in an attempt to conceal the nervous
glance she was just casting over Rachel's shoulder in the direction
of the entrance. Running into Matt without months of
preparation--or psychotherapy--was not an option. She had
to put him behind her, and seeing him again would be bound
to set her back a good week or three. Time to invent a migraine.
Rachel, however, wasn't even giving Lizzie a chance to
mention the fictitious headache which was on the verge of 'ruining'
her evening.
'You know, I always used to think that agony aunts were a
total con. I thought they just stated the obvious with little real
compassion for the people that were asking for their help. I was
convinced that they were all laughing at their readers behind
their backs. I'm sure some do. But you really seem to understand
the people involved. A new breed of aunt. Thanks to you,
I think my marriage has a real chance. You were right. It was
tough at first, but hopefully in a couple of weeks we'll have
returned to the honeymoon period...not bad considering we
both have a tendency to work late.'
Lizzie nearly choked on the remains of her prawn. She had
to get out of there and fast. Just standing opposite her was too
much. Immaculately groomed. Dark. Short. Petite, even. But
feisty and scarily self-possessed. Almost hyper. Exhausting, in
fact. And married...to him. But there was something about her
that Lizzie could relate to. She was ambitious and had a passion
for life that was infectious even if everything did seem to
revolve around herself.
'So how's things with you? Did you manage to sort out that
bloke who was mucking you around? He must have been mad.
How can someone like you have been left on the shelf? It just
doesn't make sense.'
On the shelf. Hmm. Rachel needed to work on her tact. But
199


Lizzie was thrown. She wasn't used to people asking her how
she was feeling. Maybe Rachel wasn't as self-centred as she'd
just thought. It was only a shame that the question had made
her think about its asker's husband. It still seemed ludicrous
that the one person Lizzie had met in recent years who she'd
thought might be able to make her happy was already married
to this not unattractive and not horned woman in front of her.
How she would have loved to be able to hate Rachel. But, as
it happened, it wasn't that easy.
'I just pick the wrong ones, I guess. That bloke was sent
packing. Could do better...the traditional story.'
Shit. The perfect opportunity to mention her headache and
she'd completely forgotten.
'Must be difficult for you to find time for yourself in
amongst everyone else's problem-ridden lives...'
'It--'
Lizzie had been about to answer Rachel but, a new breath
taken in an inaudible gasp that would have impressed all but
the most advanced ventriloquists, her soliloquy continued.
'I know what I do is totally different, but finding time for
myself in the average day is hard work. Aside from the odd
leg wax and haircut I seem to be continuously on the go...'
Lizzie nodded empathetically and took another sip of her
drink before starting to plot an escape route.

Matt was exhausted. Work was hectic, even if he wasn't
really achieving anything, and this kick-starting his marriage
thing was really taking it out of him. Rachel seemed to have
got what she wanted, and one out of two wasn't too bad. Probably
better than being all alone. Probably.
The pull of home and the call of the sofa were only getting
stronger in inverse proportion to his proximity to Turnham
Green. Even the gym was looking like an attractive alternative.
Going to your own work party was enough of an effort without
having to make small talk with all your wife's cronies.
Most of them never seemed interested in talking to him at all.
No doubt that young, cocky Will bloke would be hanging
around, making him feel as if he was part of the past-it posse.
200Jane Sigaloff

He breathed in and tied his navy jumper round his waist in a
token attempt to hide his rapidly increasing one-lunch-with
a-client-too-many waistline. He didn't want to further decrease
his credibility by entering this party as part of the pushingforty-with-a-paunch
crew.
As he searched the sea of blue for a familiar face he couldn't
help but wonder how many millions of pounds had been
wasted on creative away days, reader research and focus
groups before they had decided on the title. Rachel didn't
stand out, or rather she wasn't standing on a table, and therefore
he was highly unlikely to be able to pick out her diminutive
frame from the entrance. It was, he mused, the only small
thing about her. He elbowed his way towards the bar. He always
felt happier--well, more detached from the reality of his
life--with a drink in his hand.
He heard Rachel before he spotted her. She was talking animatedly
to someone, and that someone was female which
certainly made a pleasant change. Or did it? His jaw dropped.
It couldn't be. It was. Rachel was talking to someone with a
very familiar back. A shiver of paralysis ran down his spine.
Maybe he'd been set up? He was sure he'd seen it in a movie
once. A revenge of the sisterhood type thing. But he was sure
that Lizzie wasn't like that. Rachel, maybe, but not Lizzie. He
felt the now familiar surge of disappointment at the status quo.
Maybe it wasn't too late. But not now. Not here.
He turned and started to head back the way he'd come. But
she'd spotted him, made eye contact, and was now waving and
beckoning. Lizzie still had her back to him. Trapped.
Her voice came sailing over the crowd. 'Matthew! Over
here, darling. There's someone I'd like you to meet.'
It wasn't a request. It was an order, and not one that he was
allowed to ignore.
Lizzie's heart nearly stopped at the mention of his name.
The 'darling' just added insult to the multiple injury she was
currently suffering in her pericardium. She leant lightly against
a conveniently adjacent pillar for physical support. Her body
thermostat had lost control. She was cold--frozen, in fact--
with the exception of her neck which must have been crimson
it was burning up so rapidly.
What could she possibly have done to deserve this? Until
recently she'd lived by the rules that western society dictated
were the norm. She'd worked hard at school. She'd kept her
room fairly tidy. She was one of the few people who still gave
up her seat on the tube for old people and mothers with young
children. She didn't smoke. She didn't do drugs. She always
washed her hands after going to the toilet. She hadn't poked
fun at disabled people since she was under ten and didn't know
any better, and she had almost always told the truth.
Granted, she'd fallen head over heels in love with a married
man--but she wasn't the first and she wouldn't be the last. It
was as if her name had been drawn out of a hat on some higher
plane as part of some sick, twisted after-dinner game. Someone
up there was picking on her. But someone might at least
have had the decency to give her advance warning if it really
was have-a-go-at-Lizzie year so that she could have emotionally
sandbagged herself to dampen the blows a little.

Matt walked over, willing the person his wife was talking
to to be Lizzie's body double. His own body was apparently
insisting on putting one foot in front of the other instead of running
in the opposite direction. Lizzie was doing her utmost to
look relaxed, but there was already so much just-below-the
surface tension between the two of them that he was surprised
Rachel hadn't picked up on it. This was one occasion when he
was glad that she was so self-centred.
The effect of Lizzie's presence on him was electric. Every
hair in every follicle on his body was now standing to attention.
Every muscle twitched. But if she didn't want him he had
to move on. Matt had given himself this lecture countless times
over the last few weeks. There was nothing to be gained by him
moping. Just because he was an ever-hopeful--make that hopeless--romantic he couldn't wallow in brat-pack happy
ending fantasies any longer. He had to toughen up. Love was
a four-letter word, after all. For years he'd refused to believe

i;!
202Jane Sigaloff

it. Now he was starting to empathise with the bitterness of so
many of his peers.
'Hello, darling. Thanks for coming.'
Rachel kissed him lightly on the lips. He barely kissed her
back, aware of Lizzie's eyes fixed on him. Rachel didn't notice;
she was too excited. This was her moment--as usual.
'There's someone here I'm dying for you to meet. Lizzie
Ford--this is my husband Matthew. Matthew, this is Lizzie--
she's the agony aunt at Out Loud and she has that phone-in
on...'
'City FM.'
Matt was staring at Lizzie as he finished Rachel's sentence
for her and reached out to shake her hand. It was a ridiculous
moment and almost seemed to be taking place in slow motion.
Lizzie's hand was ice-cold. He smiled at her to try and relax
them both. He really needed a stiff drink; the lager in his glass
was nowhere near alcoholic enough. As the two protagonists
struggled to come to terms with their evenings Rachel provided
a babbling soundtrack over the top: a welcome distraction.
'Yes, that's right...' She sounded like a mother talking to a
four-year-old child. All that was missing was a patronising
'well done'. 'How do you know?'
'Oh, I've worked on a couple of the campaigns.'
'So you two have met before, then?'
'Not really,' Lizzie answered confidently, if a little too
quickly.
'I think we were in a meeting room together once,' Matt
added.
Well, it's a small world, isn't it? Matthew--I had no idea
you worked on that campaign.'
'I did tell you.'
'Oh, you know what I can be like. Totally preoccupied.'
Rachel was showing off in front of Lizzie and trying to
make sure that she came across as the trouser wearing, controlling
member of the marital team. Lizzie wasn't impressed.
She knew she had a vested interest, but Rachel's display of
powerful woman was wasted on her.
Matt nodded in agreement with Rachel's last statement,
which had been more honest than usual. He knew only too
well. He turned the questioning on his wife.
'So, how do you know Lizzie?' He was genuinely interested.
Lizzie wanted the floor to swallow her up--and the sooner
the better. From where she was standing there seemed to be
no way out. Clusters of partygoers blocked her exit route on
all sides.
'Remember the day I was ill just before Christmas and you
bought me some magazines...?'
Matt nodded.
'Well, I was just flicking through Out Loud and I started
reading Lizzie's pages...' Rachel, overcome with the moment
and the cocktails, was about to confess. Hell, why not? She had
nothing to lose. 'You won't believe this, and I still sometimes
think that I must have dreamt it, but I wrote to her.'
Mart's jaw had slackened in disbelief. Rachel noticed and
felt that further justification was required.
'I know it was totally out of character. I must have been
really, really ill.'
Lizzie had an unaskable question. She wanted to know
whether Matt had bought the magazine for Rachel before or
after they'd slept together. Either way, it appeared that Matt had
inadvertently introduced Rachel to Lizzie. Matt, meanwhile,
was still trying to deal with the fact that his wife and his mistress
were pen pals. Lizzie hadn't bargained for the fact that
Rachel would tell Matt that she'd consulted an agony aunt. It
hadn't even occurred to her. Apparently her plan wasn't foolproof--more
like hare-brained.
'You did what?'
Matt looked bewildered, dismayed--or was that angry? Yes
angry...but Lizzie could see the hurt in his eyes too. How on
earth had she convinced herself that getting everything back
to 'normal' would be easy?
'I wrote to her. She's good. And after the first exchange of
letters we sort of became e-mail buddies. But I'd never met
her--until about twenty minutes ago, that is. I keep inviting
her round for dinner because I want you to meet her, but she's
never free. One commitment after another. A bit like me, really.
I don't think we should take it personally...'
Rachel laughed, self-satisfied by her own wit and failing to
note the grim expression on her husband's face.
'What with her radio show, her column and all her other responsibilities
it's a wonder she has any time for herself at all.'
Matt had now substituted stonyfaced with confused, and
kept running his hand through his hair distractedly. He'd have
loved to call a 'time out'. To ask Lizzie to run through the finer
points of the situation with him. But it wasn't going to be feasible
for them to glean two seconds, let alone two minutes together.
He stared at the two women.
Lizzie gave Matt what she hoped was a reassuring look before
deciding that it might be best if she took the conversation
into her own hands. At least that way she could change the subject,
or at the very least move them along before one of them
made an irrevocable blunder.
'So, Matt--Matthew...urn...are you working on any interesting projects? Any more slogans I should prepare to be brainwashed
by?'
Matt could feel Rachel watching him, willing him to be the
fantastic husband she had undoubtedly told Lizzie he was.
'Well...'
'How did you know he does slogans?'
Lizzie was regretting ever speaking. It had taken less than
ten seconds to insert her foot firmly into her mouth. Her cheeks
were now puce under her foundation, but thanks to Lancome
she was probably about to get away with it. She could be quite
a good liar if she had to be, provided her blushes didn't give
her away, and make-up and alcohol were proving to be the perfect
accomplices.
'He's a copywriter, isn't he? I think you told me in one of
your e-mails.' Inspired. Well recovered under pressure.
'Oh, yes, probably.' Rachel seemed almost apologetic.
'I have this weird selective memory. I always remember
what people do for a living and what pets they have.' Lizzie
knew she was spouting drivel, but it seemed to have done the
trick.
205


It would've been sensible to quit while she was ahead. To
make her excuses and leave. But the combination of Rachel's
chatty disposition, Matt's proximity and the genuinely bizarre
nature of the evening encouraged her to stay a little longer.
They progressed gingerly. Lizzie asked polite questions
about Rachel's job and the campaign while Matt stared at her.
Lizzie then transferred her interest to Matt and asked lots of
questions that she already knew the answers to. Rachel rolled
her eyes impatiently every time he used one of his trademark
corny one-liners that Lizzie had come to love.
At the first opportunity he had to escape Matt obligingly offered
to go to the bar for refills and left Lizzie chatting just a
little too amicably with his wife. He had quite a few important
questions. Like at which point exactly had Lizzie known that
he and Rachel were married? He suspected that he already
knew the answer. What a fucking mess. He downed a blue
vodka shot at the bar before returning to the ever-so-cosy conversation
armed with the next round of drinks.
He dutifully handed his wife her usual G & T and presented
Lizzie with a vodka and blue cranberry.
'I thought you might like one of these.'
'What is it?"
'Vodka and cranberry...with a hint of something blue, of
course. I think they said it was blackcurrant...'
Rachel wasn't impressed. 'Why couldn't you have just got
her another glass of wine instead of going for the glorified
Ribena option?' She turned to Lizzie to apologise for Matt.
Lizzie could have punched her.
'Sorry. Hope you like it. He never has been very good at following
orders.' She threw back her head and laughed conspiratorially
before raising her eyes to heaven. 'Cheers, anyway.'
She raised her glass.
It was the final straw. Lizzie couldn't bear the way Rachel
was treating him--and besides, cranberries reminded her of the
Christmas party. She sipped her drink and turned to thank him.
'How lovely. One of my favourites. Thanks, Matt.'
He almost blushed.
'You might remember jobs and pets. I never forget what a
girl likes to drink.'
They both laughed. For a split second it was as if Rachel
wasn't there. Only she was. Staring. Silent. Her eyes were
cold, her mouth tightly closed, a horizontal line on her otherwise
beautiful face. Matt looked shocked as he realised the implications
of his comment. Rachel stared at Lizzie, then at
Matt, then at Lizzie again. She looked as confused as a cat
watching tennis on television.
Relaxed by the alcohol, Lizzie decided that Rachel deserved
some sort of explanation. She was feeling so guilty that her
hormones simply took over, and it didn't look as if Matt was
going to say anything.
'Rachel, I can explain...' Could she? Lizzie wished she felt
as confident as she had just sounded. 'I have met Matt before.
We had a drink together at the City FM Christmas party. I just
didn't put two and two together when he arrived this evening
and you introduced us. He must have looked different back
then. More hair, more weight...something...'
'Oh.' What the hell was going on? Lizzie was trying far too
hard and Matthew had just begun a detailed study of his shoes.
'So when did you realise that you knew each other?'
'To be honest I thought he looked vaguely familiar when he
first came over, but I wasn't quite sure where I'd seen him before.
You know how it is...I meet so many people in the course
of my job. Then as we were chatting I gradually realised, and
the drink thing sealed it for me. We ended up debating the pop
ularity of cranberry juice at the party but we'd both had a skinful
and that was...' There was a pause while Lizzie counted the
months on her fingers. 'Well, nearly five months ago.' Was it
really? Lizzie had surprised herself.
Matt joined in. Not a moment too soon in Lizzie's opinion.
'Chill out, Rach. I dread to think how many men have
bought you drinks at office parties and you don't see me getting
my knickers in a twist. So Lizzie didn't remember me at
first. Can't say I blame her. I'm hardly Mr Memorable, am I?'
Chill out? God, it annoyed her when he tried to do 'street'.
At his age it just seemed so try-hard. She had a few questions,
but he could wait.
They returned, somewhat stiltedly, to their small talk.
Lizzie was relieved that Mart's self-deprecation seemed to
have pacified Rachel. It looked as if they'd got away with it
and, heart pounding, Lizzie decided that it was time to excuse
herself. She conspicuously checked her watch.
'Look, I'd better get on. I've still got to try and track down
Melissa and introduce myself before I leave. Rachel, it's been
great to finally meet you.' She leant towards Rachel and kissed
her on the cheek. Very media. But a handshake seemed inappropriate
somehow. Rachel didn't pull away. The conversation
ended more or less as it had begun, if a little less effusively.
'So, see you for dinner in a few weeks, then?'
'Sure. That'd be great. I'll e-mail you nearer the time.' As
if. She'd start thinking of her next excuse just as soon as she
got home.
'Any special requests? Anything you don't eat?'
'I think I pretty much eat everything--usually all at the
same time...'
Matt was suffering with deja-vu.
'Bye, Matt. Nice to meet you...again. Sorry I didn't recognise
you at first, it just took a bit of time to place that face...
Mr Memorable. I'll remember next time. Good luck with
everything.'
Instinctively she leant forward and kissed his...cheek. Bonus
point for Ms Ford. Luckily Matt had helped by moving his
cheek into the casual acquaintance position. Lizzie was really
flustered and, again, it was all her own doing. She could feel
Rachel watching her. Matt took over. He was remarkably calm.
No mean feat considering that he'd had more surprises to deal
with than Lizzie this evening.
"Thanks...and you. Maybe we'll run into each other at City
some time. Next time just make sure you remember where
you've seen me before.' Matt smiled at her mischievously. He
was incorrigible.
Inwardly Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief, silently promising
the goddess of gym membership that from this day forward
she'd be a good girl, exercise regularly and drink two litres of
still water every day if she could just leave now, her reputation
intact.
But Rachel wasn't about to let her husband have the last
word.
'Oh, and Lizzie...?'
'Yes?'
'You know... Um...this is going to sound daft after all I've
said...um...but I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell too many people...well,
anyone really...about how we know each other. It's
just that--well, you know--people might not understand.'
Rachel thought back to an effusive Will, strutting around her
office, mocking Lizzie's letters page. He was one of the people
that she never wanted to find out.
'No problem. Confidentiality is my career.'
'Great. Thanks.' Rachel gave Lizzie a mildly irritating insincere
media wink as she was gratefully swallowed up by the
rapidly expanding crowd.
Lizzie marched to the loos as assertively as she could and
had barely locked the cubicle door behind her before the tears
started. She wasn't sure why she was crying. Guilt? Relief?
Unrequited love? Once the pent-up emotion had been released,
she pulled herself together quickly, splashed some cold water
onto her burning cheeks, took a deep breath, re-applied some
eyeliner and prepared to re-enter the fray in search of Melissa
Matthews.
She would've preferred to head straight for the sanctuary of
her sofa, but the spirit of Robyn Summers was nudging her into
action. It probably wasn't a bad thing. It would only look odd
if she left this early.
As she applied a self-protective coat of lipgloss, Lizzie wondered
if she and Matt had got away with it. She didn't have to
wait long for an answer. Rachel burst through the door which,
at the receiving end of her fury, smacked loudly into the wall,
and marched straight up to Lizzie, only just stopping short of
pinning her up against the wallpaper. A lone hand-washer left
hurriedly, without bothering to dry or thinking to stay and
watch. The difference in Rachel couldn't have been any
greater. She'd gone from charming to civil to psycho in
minutes.
The goddess of gym membership had obviously run a check
on Elizabeth Ford of 56 Oxford Road only to discover that
she'd previously promised regular attendance and higher intake
levels of non-alcoholic and decaffeinated fluids in return
for a favour, only to rescind on her side of the bargain once
she was out of harm's way.
'What the fuck do you think you've been playing at?'
It looked as if a lucky escape was no longer on the cards.
Lizzie was terrified. An instant headache thumped into her
temples and a surge of nausea swept up from her stomach like
a giant tsunami. She didn't bother mentioning it to Rachel. She
sensed that she wasn't in a sympathetic mood.
'Ah...umm...'
It was a pathetic display of inarticulacy from someone who
was supposed to do communication for a living, but she didn't
know where to start. Rachel was only too happy to take over.
Lizzie braced herself.
'Why the hell didn't you and Matthew tell me that you knew
each other when I first introduced you?'
That one was relatively easy. She just had to go over what
she'd told her earlier. She employed the tried and tested repeatthe-question-to-give-yourself-a-little-bit-more-time-be- fore-answering tactic, to calm herself down and regain her
composure. She was sure it was still around here somewhere.
'Why didn't I tell you that Matt and I had met before? Well, um... As I said out there, it took me a few minutes to realise
that he was the same guy I'd met at the Christmas party. I didn't
recognise him at first. And it was all out of context. I was expecting
to meet your husband. I didn't expect your husband to
be someone I'd ever met before. We only spent that one
evening together, and the party was nearly five months ago.'
'OK, so you pass the memory test. But don't patronise me.
Something's going on here and I think it's only fair that you
tell me what it is.'
Lizzie re-adopted the mute approach and shrugged her
shoulders, as if confused. Unfortunately it only seemed to
augment Rachel's irritation.
'Listen, I'm not an idiot. Something was going on out there.
I've just asked Matt for an explanation and he told me to "simmer
down". Simmer down, I tell you. I'm not a fucking pan.
And this from a word-man. No wonder he's still small fry. I
expected more from him, and I certainly expected a lot more from you. You two have done a lot more than just meet before,
haven't you? You conniving bitch. Not so fucking saintly after
all, are you? You must think I'm stupid.'
Rachel was going out on a limb. It was only a hunch at this
stage, but the eyes had it. She was bloody well going to be
proved right, and if there was one occasion in her life that
Rachel had wished she was wrong, it was right now. Molten
hysteria bubbled in her ears.
Lizzie thanked the powers that be that she was British and
that no one in Kensington was allowed to carry a gun to parties.
Had she been in America she feared that she would currently
be sliding down the designer-papered walls of the
Ladies' leaving a dark red trail of her own blood behind her.
Rachel was certainly angry enough.
They say that you never know how you will react to a crisis
until you are knee-deep in one. Curiously, Lizzie's brain
seemed to have closed down. Before it did, though, it had chosen
to flag up its most relevant saying from deep in its recesses.
The archivist had obviously been busy. 'Hell hath no fury like
a woman scorned' was currently playing on a loop in Lizzie's
head.
Lizzie could well believe it, but right now she needed to be
paying attention. Hell also hath no fury like a woman who isn't
being listened to in the heat of the moment. It might have been
a less well-known epithet but it was just as true and, faced with
Rachel Baker on the brink of eruption, Lizzie went into automatic
pacifying mode. She'd never really understood why two
people couldn't just sit down and talk things through. The
trouble being that if you tried to quieten down someone who
liked a good old shout you were in danger of making things
worse than they had been at the outset. From her current dis
play Lizzie suspected that Rachel was a shouter. Still, it was
worth a try.
'Listen, Rachel. I'm sorry you're so upset, and I'm sorry if
it's my fault, but I think there's been a misunderstanding.' Too
many sorrys, perhaps? Too late now.
'Please, calm down and I'll try and explain. It's not as bad
as you think.' Unfortunately in order for Lizzie the Pacifier to
be successful she had also become Lizzie the Liar. Not as bad
as you think. Who was she trying to kid? It couldn't get much
worse.
Rachel folded her arms. 'Go on, then.'
The truth beckoned, and it wasn't going to sound any better
in ten minutes' time when her current flight of fancy fell
flat on its face. Lizzie blinked hard and took a deep breath before
punching her next few sentences out as fast as she could.
'Look--it's been over for a long time, and I didn't know he
was married at the time we met. And I certainly didn't know
he was married to you. I know it all sounds a little too convenient,
but I can explain.' It was all true, even if lizzie had to
admit it did sound pathetic out loud. She waited to see what
happened next. She was never doing this again. No orgasm was
worth what she was going through right now.
'What's the extent of the "it" we're talking about here?'
Lizzie was floored. What she really needed to do was confer
with Matt quickly, just to get their stories straight, but
Rachel obviously wasn't going anywhere until she had more
information.
'Look, Rachel, as I said earlier, Matt and I have met before.
Several times. Well, we've more than met. It all sounds so calculated
now, but believe me nothing could have been planned
any worse. It's true...' Lizzie looked crestfallen '...we had a
brief liaison.' In this situation Lizzie didn't feel the need to be
one hundred per cent honest about the duration or the intensity
of their three-month relationship. 'But it's been over for a
long time. I made a mistake. He made a mistake. I'm so sorry.
If it's any consolation--and I doubt it is--my life will never
be the same again. I hate myself for what's happened. I only
hope that there'll come a time when you'll be able to see things
from my point of view and forgive me.' Lizzie knew it was a
tall order, but right now she had nothing left to lose.
Rachel was quiet--too quiet, for too many seconds. Lizzie
was praying that someone would interrupt them. There must
be a few hundred people drinking out there. One of them must
have a bladder that needed emptying. The suspense was too
much to bear. Lizzie was almost relieved when Rachel started
to scream and shout.
'Too right your life will never be the same again,' Rachel
exploded. Lizzie couldn't blame her, but it didn't stop her
from promptly bursting into tears. It made no difference to
Rachel, who had apparently stockpiled a battery of expletives,
threats, rhetorical questions and insults during Lizzie's last
speech.
Rachel couldn't believe it. Less than two hours earlier she'd
been applying lipstick. Now she was involved in a showdown
with her guest of honour in the ladies' loo. It was too unbelievably
downmarket for words. Not the sort of thing she did.
But she couldn't help herself; she had to finish her off. No one
was going to break her marriage up.
'How can you hold your head up high and have the audacity
to call yourself an agony aunt? How can you believe that
you're helping people when you're probably causing as many
problems as you solve? Did you really think you'd be able to
get away with this? Did you?'
Lizzie shook her head, thankful for the veil of tears that now
meant she couldn't see Rachel clearly. The blurred version was
scary enough.
'Where was your precious "code of ethics" when you were
humping my husband?'
Lizzie grimaced. Rachel made it sound like a cheap porn
flick. Or, worse still, Carry on Copywriter. Lizzie was sure she
could hear the 'uck-uck-uck' laugh of Sid James, sinisterly ricocheting
off the inside off her skull.
Rachel was only just warming up. Nothing that Clare had
said to her had prepared Lizzie for this level of hurt. Her feelings
of guilt were only making the pain more acute.
'I can't believe it. You fucking bitch. After everything I've
213


told you. I confided in you. I opened up to you. I trusted you.
There I am, worrying that my husband was having an affair,
and it was you all along. To think that you get paid to advise
people for a living when you can't even organise your own life
properly! It's fucking ridiculous. Do you really think you deserve
to get paid for screwing your readers' husbands?'
Rachel, in Lizzie's very humble opinion, was managing to
make her sound a lot worse than she was. It wasn't as if she
made a habit of this. Plus, she kept reminding herself, as soon
as she had known that Matt was married to Rachel she'd done
the right thing. The trouble was, now she could see what Clare
had meant. It shouldn't have mattered who Matt's wife was.
She should have ended it after that night at the Atlantic. Not
that it would have changed the way Rachel saw any of this at
the moment. Sex was sex. Sex with someone else's husband
was an affair. Even if Lizzie didn't know about the husband
bit? Somehow it seemed a bit childish to bring it up again. She
was in The Wrong, with a capital T and a capital W.
Rachel was still ranting, and now turned as if to address a
crowd. Thankfully for Lizzie it was an imaginary one.
'Ask Lizzie?' Rachel scoffed. 'What a joke. Why fucking
bother? She lives her own life by a very different set of rules.'
Lizzie resisted the urge to retaliate. She figured it was probably
better for Rachel to get it all out. At least she hadn't confessed
that she'd loved Matt, that he'd loved her, and that she'd
made the ultimate sacrifice to save Rachel's marriage. She
didn't think Rachel would appreciate her generosity of spirit
at this juncture. 'I know how it looks--'
'You have no idea how it looks. You'll live to regret this, I
can assure you. You're a two-faced, lying hypocrite and I'm
sure all the other people who pin their hopes on you, who write
in, who call up and who e-mail you, would love to know what
you're really like. And who was that charming woman I spoke
to the other day? Susan? Yes, I'm sure Susan would love to
know what you've been up to. I can see the front page of the
tabloids now... "Agony aunt beds husband of heartbroken
woman who writes in for advice because she suspects her husband
is having an affair..." You haven't just let me down, you've
let yourself down--and all the people you offer hope to. I had
come to regard you as a friend--and I'm sure I'm not the
first.'

'I'm so sorry.' It was all Lizzie could manage. And she was.
Very, very sorry.

Rachel was pacing. Something about her movements was
reminiscent of a caged animal. 'It's so humiliating. To think
that I was pouring out my personal problems to you while you
were probably still warm from your sex sessions with my husband.'

Sex sessions? Now, hang on. Lizzie was sure that she had
never had a 'sex session' in her life. Interesting, too, that Rachel
was humiliated rather than heartbroken. Lizzie was beginning
to wonder whether Rachel wasn't enjoying the drama of the
whole situation just a little too much. But she stopped herself.
She was the one who had been sleeping with someone else's
husband. Rachel was entitled to be livid. She was sure she'd
do her crying later, behind a closed door somewhere, when the
shock wore off.

'I suggest you start at the beginning. I seem to have my dates
all mixed up. Just remind me. When exactly did you sleep with
my husband?'

Lizzie wished she would stop saying 'my husband'. It
sounded a lot worse than just 'Matt', and despite her height
advantage she was feeling smaller and smaller. In her own
mind she had practically reached Mrs Pepperpot dimensions.
She only hoped that Matt was using this time to get a taxi to
the airport. She would much rather have had a chance to explain
all this to him.

Lizzie took a deep breath. 'I first met Matt at the Gity FM
Christmas party last year. We got chatting. That was all. I
didn't know he was married. He didn't tell me. I didn't ask.
Nothing happened...that night anyway. We met up a couple of
days later and then, what with him going skiing and everything,
it all took off. At that point I hadn't had your letter, and even
if I had I wouldn't have known that you two were linked in any
way.'

Lizzie shook her head. 'By the time I discovered that he was
married, and married to you, I was in up to my neck--and, believe
me, I did everything in my power to make things better
again. I thought we could all move on and put it behind us. I
should have known better. I wish that none of this had happened.
I just want my old stress-free life back.'
Lizzie's voice sounded hollow. She was drained. It all
sounded unconvincing now. Rachel had every reason to feel angry and hurt. Lizzie knew that. But she couldn't ignore the
fact that she'd fallen in love with Matt, and what made it even
worse was that she honestly had believed that he'd been in love
with her too. But did she wish that she'd never met him? Even
now that was a tricky one.
Rachel was finding the line between fury, hysteria and tears
incredibly fine. There was nothing she hated more than to be
a made a fool of, and yet in a peculiar and irrational way, despite
herself, she was jealous of Lizzie. Rachel knew her own
control freak tendencies only too well, and it was true she did
like to have the power to pull the strings, but Matt was hers.
She'd always believed that he was hers unconditionally, and
that as bad as things got he loved her enough to stand by her.
She'd thought that even at her worst she'd made him happy.
Apparently not. And instead of finding a clone replacement
he'd gone for the archetypal leggy blonde. Jesus. She wasn't
about to give up on him. She might have been betrayed by the
two people she'd trusted above all others, but she wasn't about
to let either of them get off lightly. No one fucked up Rachel
Baker's perfect life plan without asking first.
Lizzie sensed Rachel's distress and, oblivious to the depth
of her anger, allowed her professional persona to take over for
a second. 'Look, Matt and I weren't together when things between
you two started picking up. He'd obviously hit rock bottom
when we met and he used me. I was an unwitting
accomplice. But you two are back on track now. You told me
that yourself.'
Lizzie knew that this would offer little consolation to a
woman who'd been paranoid about infidelity since her childhood,
but she had to try everything. It was her turn to be selfish.
She could see the tabloids now. They'd have a field-day.
216Jane Sigaloff

And her job was all she had left. Lizzie swore to herself that
she would never have sex again, ever, if she got out of this party
alive. She'd always wanted to travel. Maybe this was the perfect
time for her to buy a herd of sheep, embrace a nomadic
lifestyle and go and find herself--or better still lose herself--
on the mountainsides of Peru.
Rachel had finally come to the end of this phase of her attack,
and she wasn't quite sure what to do next. She needed
some time to plan her next move and she had to get out of the
Ladies'. 'This isn't over yet. Once I've got the sordid details
out of that low-life of a man I was once proud to call my husband,
I'll decide what to do next. I don't need him. I don't need
you. I don't need anyone.' Rachel gathered her last ounce of
composure and stormed out of the toilets and out of the launch.
Lizzie really had to hand it to Rachel. It was quite an exit.
She bundled herself into the nearest stall where she could at
least lock a door and lick her wounds in semi-private while trying
to compose herself sufficiently to re-enter the arena. She
shuddered as she recapped the last hour. She only hoped that
their exchange hadn't been audible in the main party area.
Lizzie remained in hiding until she'd heard a few flushes and
a corresponding number of hand-washing and drying noises
before making the unilateral decision that she couldn't spend
the rest of the evening in hiding.
She'd almost convinced herself that the crowd were going
to part before her like the Red Sea as everyone stopped to catch
a glimpse of tomorrow's news headlines, but to Lizzie's relief
the DJs were now in full swing and she made it to the exit unscathed
and unhindered, her publicity smile plastered somewhat
unconvincingly across her face.
Melissa Matthews would just have to wait.
Lizzie barely breathed on her taxi ride home, much to the
annoyance of her cab driver who was trying to get as much information
and advice as possible out of his semi-celebrity passenger.
She stuck with the gruff lip-biting approach all the way
to SW15, before giving the bloke a generous tip and flashing
him her best I'm-having-the-worst-day-of-my-life-but-know
I-can't-afford-to-be-moody smile, hoping that he wouldn't tell
all his future passengers that Lizzie Ford was 'a right moody
cow--all compassion on the radio, but very rude when I drove
her home'. She knew never to underestimate the power of a
black cabbie--so much more than just a ride home, and worth
their weight in leather interiors and word-of-mouth publicity.
Back in the empty flat, she grabbed a couple of bottles from
the drinks cabinet and made it to her bedroom before breaking
down uncontrollably. Every time she closed her eyes she
could see career-ending newspaper headlines projected onto
the inside of her eyelids. How could she have risked everything
she had worked so hard for, for a man? And, even more of a
concern, why, right now, when her world was hanging in the
balance, the Sword of Damocles swinging gently above her
head, was she wondering if he was OK?
She had to speak to someone--but her mother would need
the whole back story, Colin would be too flippant, He would
be at home with Her, and the only other person she really
wanted to talk to wasn't really speaking to her. She dialled
Clare's mobile anyway, and when it clicked on to answer-phone--as she had known it would--she left the most pathetic
message she'd ever left before hanging up and wallowing
in a new wave of self-pity which rolled in over the duvet as
she sobbed herself to sleep.
For the second time in six months her life had fallen apart.
Only this time there was no saving grace. Rachel was determined
for revenge and there was only Lizzie's job left to take.
And Lizzie had just handed her the perfect story on a plate.
chapter

Clare listened to Lizzie's message once more in the cab before
dialling the flat again. There was still no answer. It didn't
make sense. Lizzie had to be there. Maybe she'd unplugged
the phone? Clare smiled to herself. Lizzie was about as likely
to have unplugged the phone as she was to eat an apple if there
was a biscuit in the house. If you wanted to torture her all you
had to do was prevent her from answering a ringing phone. But
the mystery remained unsolved. Where was she now?
Clare wished she was a bit more up to date. From what she
could make out from Lizzie's almost unintelligibly slurred
message, she thought she was going to lose everything. Clare
wasn't sure how literally to take it. There could be a pinch of
drama queen in there, but as a rule she'd never been that good
an actress--and even allowing for the distortion of her mobile
phone Lizzie sounded terrible.
As angry, bitter and disappointed as Clare had been when
the whole Matt saga had unfolded, Lizzie was her best friend
in the whole world, and at the end of the day she did want
Lizzie to be happy--just preferably not at the expense of an
innocent party. But maybe she should've done more sitting and
listening. She'd been meaning to call for a couple of weeks,
but work and pride just kept getting in the way. Clare was sure
that if she couldn't quite forgive she would learn to forget.
Friends like Lizzie were hard to find, and in a less than perfect
world maybe Clare had expected too much.
Lizzie wasn't to blame because her own husband had failed
to keep it in his trousers, but she still found it hard to distance
herself from the hurt she'd felt when Joe had cheated. She'd
loved him with every molecule, and had happily been planning
their soft-focus future when he'd stopped her life in its tracks,
and, while she'd rebuilt her self-worth, it would always be
something that she'd take personally. When your partner slept
with someone else there was no other way to take it.
It was 11.25 p.m. when Clare finally let herself in. All the
lights were on, but there was no sign of life. On closer inspection,
the pile of clothes on Lizzie's bed was person-shaped.
Still dressed, she had assumed the crumpled heap position, face
down, her duvet half-on, half-on the floor, her mascara half on
her eyes, half on her cheeks. An empty bottle of gin was at her
side, adjacent to an empty bottle of tonic. Clare looked down
affectionately at her best friend. Even at rock bottom she hadn't
been able to swig neat alcohol. She had, though, it appeared,
stopped short of a slice of lemon and a glass.
Clare undressed her totally comatose flatmate and put her
in the recovery position before going to get a few cushions
from the sofa and setting up a nursing station at the end of the
bed. She had no idea that things had reached the drinking-in- your-bedroom-until-you-pass-out stage. She checked Lizzie's
CD player. Just as she'd thought. Travis were in situ. She must
have been up to her waist in heartache as she'd lost consciousness.
Lizzie
woke up to find herself naked and someone asleep
on the floor at the end of her bed. She didn't remember even
getting into bed. Using her arms, she hauled herself to the edge
of the bed and let her head hang down. She just stared at the
sleeping face for a few seconds as the blood rushed to her brain,
and put her arm out to touch her just in case she was hallucinating.
It was Clare. Asleep. In her room. In their flat. A se
ries of tears relubricated the rivers of eye make-up that had
dried overnight. Clare was home. Lizzie almost managed a
smile before her body reminded her why it had seen fit to
rouse her from her coma a few minutes earlier. She stumbled
to the bathroom where she was violently and repeatedly sick.
Her nurse slept on.
chapter

According to her watch it had just gone 8:00 a.m. but for a
split second when Clare woke up she had no idea where she
was. Sitting up, she reeled as the beams of daylight highlighted
the picture of devastation all around her. The air in the room
was probably forty per cent proof, but after breathing gin and
goodness knows what else all over them Lizzie had obviously gone in search of fresh air. As Clare subjected her lungs to another
intake of stale, stuffy room, with just a hint of ethanol,
and observed the clothing debris draped over every available
chair and bedknob, she could understand why.

'Coming up after the break, we talk to women who just can't
say no....'
'...the trouble with the children in the area is that they have no respect for anyone but themselves...'
'...just add the rest of the ingredients and stir gently...'
'A new survey published this morning reveals that Britain
now has the highest divorce rate in Europe. We ask: is divorce
too easy? Should we work harder at our marriages? Or is staying
together for better or for worse an outdated concept?'
'Who's on line four? Angela, good morning to you. Where
are you calling from?'
Clare stood in the doorway to the sitting room. Lizzie, clad
in tracksuit bottoms and favourite hooded sweatshirt, was
perched on the sofa. Her hood was on. She was hiding. Blinkered
from the rest of the world, she had failed to notice Clare
watching her. Lizzie was almost a woman possessed, doggedly
flicking from channel to channel, following the morning's
stories as they unfolded. She'd obviously been up early and out
already as the day's papers were strewn all around her and a
now empty bottle of chocolate milk had been discarded on the
coffee table. Clare wasn't at all sure what she was looking for.
She needed to do some catching up--and fast.
Clare went to make tea before returning to the newsroom.
This time she announced her arrival, and as she sat down
Lizzie relinquished the remote control, grabbing hold of Clare
instead and hugging her.
'Thank you so much for coming over. I've missed you so
much. I know I've been stupid. Naive. Selfish. Whatever. I
didn't mean for all this to happen.'
'Hey, it's OK.'
Clare felt awful for having left Lizzie to stew for so long.
She'd always had a dogmatically stubborn streak. In that respect
she was an archetypal Taurus.
She held Lizzie close.
'Everything will be fine.'
Lizzie shook her head numbly. Her eyes lacked their usual
vitality. Her body language was negative. She slumped back
into the sofa. Tired, drawn and dejected.
'I'm not so sure. I think I've really blown it this time.'
Lizzie recounted the evening to Clare, who did her best to
keep positive until she had all the information at her disposal.
In a nutshell it sounded as if Lizzie had innocently gone to meet
someone about a job, bumped into someone else and pretty
much succeeded in losing her career in the process.
'And so you bought all the papers because you thought they
might be running a story on you this morning?'
'Yes.'
Clare raised an eyebrow at Lizzie.
'Look, you didn't see Rachel last night. She wants my blood
and she's the sort of woman who gets exactly what she wants.'
'I felt like that once. And I hate to say it but it doesn't get a
lot easier.'
Thanks, I feel heaps better now.' Lizzie tried to give her a
wry smile, but she suspected it looked more like trapped wind.
'Look, I hope you don't mind me saying this, and I know I'm
biased, but I've thought about this a lot and I honestly think
your situation with Joe was completely different. It's just that
when I saw Rachel and Matt together they didn't look that
happy. And I don't think she really loves him. Not the right
way. Not as much as he deserves.'
'Liz. Please. You have no idea what goes on between those
two behind closed doors. For all you know they had a row
about toothpaste lids that morning. Just because they weren't
all over each other doesn't mean that their marriage is back on
the rocks. I know you don't want to think about it but they
could be having great sex right now.'
Lizzie felt shaky. She knew Clare had to be honest, that was
what friends were for and all that stuff, but maybe just not quite
this blunt. Lizzie refused to be drawn by Clare's logic. She
i didn't know Matt--or Rachel, for that matter. Common sense
was one thing, but it didn' t apply to every situation. Otherwise
everyone would always know what to do and what to expect.
'But you haven't met Rachel. She's totally focused. I admit
I thought she was great at first--but by the end of the night
she was intimidating me. I just think Matt needs something
more.'
'Something more...like you, perhaps? Don't forget, you lied
to him too. Matt had no idea that you knew about their marital
problems from her point of view. He didn't know you and
Rachel were pen friends and I'm sure you're not the only one
feeling lousy right now. Being lied to hurts...you learnt that
from him in February.'
Lizzie wasn't really listening. She knew Clare had a point, but she didn't want to face up to yet more of her failings. All
she really wanted was a bit of sympathy and someone to tell her
that everything would work out. Suddenly she was exhausted
and shivering. She pottered off to the kitchen in search of
painkillers and carbohydrate.
'Poor guy.' She had meant to think it. Unfortunately it
slipped out and Clare was right behind her to catch it.
'Hmm. Look, Liz, I don't want to be brutal but right now
we can assume that Matt is at home, with Rachel. The one thing
we can be sure of is that he's not here consoling you. Now, I
know that you need to justify your relationship with Matt to
yourself and to me, and you keep telling me that their marriage
was as good as over when you started seeing each other, but--
as you of all people should know--that "married in name
only" line is a pretty standard pick-up line for an adulterer. I'm
just surprised you fell for it.'
'I know all that--but, Clare, you know that feeling you get
when someone cares about you? We were both so happy in
each other's company. It was--well, looking back, it couldn't
have been, but for a few weeks everything seemed perfect.'
'Because he was lying to you...'
Clare was bowled over by the feelings that Lizzie still had
for Matt. Only now did she realise how deeply Lizzie had
come to care for him over the last few months. But she'd been
brave, she'd done the right thing in ending it, and now she had
to stand by her decision and move on. Boy, Lizzie knew how
to pick them. She was obviously still in love with Matt. Yet
again she seemed to have chosen to invest her emotions in
someone who, when the crunch came, didn't choose to love
her back.
'Listen, Liz, hard as it may seem, you really need to try and
forget all about Matt. Stop being a true heart-following romantic
just for a minute or two. Right now you need to concentrate
on keeping your job and your credibility.'
'But how?'
Clare had to admit to herself that at this precise moment she
wasn't sure, but she refused to admit defeat so early on in the
day. There must be some options available to Lizzie even if she
hadn't worked out what they were yet. It was all about being
rational--although, even in the sober light of day, Clare had
to admit that there was currently more drama in Lizzie's life
than there had been on television since Christmas. She followed
her back to the sofa with a fresh mug of tea and a sponge
finger--the nearest thing she could find to breakfast in the cupboard.
'Just give me a second. I'm thinking. You're the person
who does advice for a living. And to be honest I'm a bit behind
and slightly confused about who knew what about who
when.'
Nearly an hour later Clare was up to speed on Lizzie and
Matt, Matt and Rachel, Rachel and Lizzie, and Rachel, Lizzie
and Matt. It was a truly three-dimensional love triangle. A sort
of Rubik's Cube conundrum for the twenty-first century. And
Clare had to admit, if only to herself at this stage, it didn't look
good. There might not be anything in the papers this morning,
but it was likely to take a couple of days for Rachel to sort out
a reporter, a paper, contacts and enough photos to fill a double-page
spread. Somehow they had to try and keep one step
ahead, although unless Rachel had woken up in a totally different
frame of mind Clare wasn't sure what they could do.
Only time would tell whether Lizzie's career could weather
this storm, and while there seemed little point in lizzie drawing
anyone's attention to her indiscretion on the off-chance that
Rachel changed her mind, conversely it would be better if she
got to Susan before Rachel did. In the interim Clare was
adamant that she just had to carry on as normal, which didn't
mean sitting around in front of the television in a tracksuit at
11 ;Q0 a.m., waiting for her world to end or for Pauline to leave EastEnders. It was difficult to say which one was more likely
to happen first.
Clare collapsed onto the sofa after one of her biggest pep
talks ever and for a few minutes the old I-can-do-anything
Lizzie was back. She even fetched herself a pint of water from
the kitchen in an attempt to start today again. But slowly, visibly,
the energy and enthusiasm drained away. At a loss as to
what to do next, Clare adopted the I-won't-take-no-for-an-an
swer bossy matronly approach, finally forcing Lizzie to have
a bath and change her clothes. She was determined to get her
226
Jane Sigalqff


off the sofa and away from the television for at least an hour
before she cooked her some lunch.

Lizzie was woken by a bell. Instinctively, she reached out
with her arm to silence an invisible alarm clock while her
brain took a couple more seconds to register the noise and ascertain
its source. She'd been totally unconscious. Out cold.
As she attempted to make it into the upright position without
passing out she saw a note from Clare on the floor. She concentrated
on focusing on the words which were currently skating
across the page as her blood did its best to redistribute itself
throughout her body following its concentration at her stomach,
where it had been shopping for post-lunch nutrients.

Popped to chemist to stock up on tissues and ibuprofen.
Back in a few minutes. C x

Maybe she'd forgotten her keys. Lizzie went through the
motions of looking at her watch. She could see both hands, but
she was still too groggy to be able to interpret them.
She stumbled to the entryphone and peered at the screen.
Adrenaline surged through her veins as, frozen, she just stared
at her arch enemy. Rachel was looking straight at her. A few
seconds later the bell rang again. It was a long, impatient answer-me-now
blast. Rachel only gave it a few seconds before
she started shouting.
'I know you're up there, Lizzie...'

Totally illogically Lizzie squatted down below screen level.
Out of sight? Well, if Rachel could see through doors and up
stairs it was. If not, the walls were probably doing quite a
good job all by themselves. It wasn't a two-way camera. Honestly.
Sometimes she wondered about herself. She was the sort
of person who ducked inside a car when you drove through a
low tunnel.
Lizzie willed Clare to arrive back now. Why on earth had
she left her at home alone? She didn't need a chemist, she
needed a bloody alchemist. But Lizzie knew she couldn't hide
from Rachel. It wasn't worth it.
'I suggest you let me in now...unless, of course, you'd rather
I came back a little bit later with a reporter and a photographer?'
Lizzie
took solace from the fact that, on analysis of that last
threat, Rachel hadn't already been to the papers. Her relief was
fleeting. Concerned that the rest of Putney would convene on
her doorstep for the next instalment if she didn't open the
door, and worried that Colin might be at home and only too
eager to witness the next instalment of her new soap opera existence
first hand, Lizzie went downstairs to let Rachel in.
As she reached the front door she realised to her horror that
she was wearing an old gym sweatshirt of Mart's, and hurriedly
ripped it off and flung it into her study. A narrow escape. She
was now having a bit of a thin T-shirt nipple moment, and wanton
hussy was the last look she wanted to portray today. She
folded her arms defensively across her chest at breast height
and hoped for the best.
Rachel swept up the stairs, casting her judgmental gaze
over the flat and, Lizzie felt sure, her attire. Her home might
¦, have benefited from a good dust and a vacuum, but it was far
I from a den of iniquity or somewhere that a ' sex session' would
ever have occurred. For a start there was no pile carpet. Rachel
was power-dressed to the hilt and had entered the flat wielding
her mobile phone, obviously ready for battle. Lizzie felt
as shabby as she looked.
Rachel refused to sit down, nor did she seem interested in
a coffee, a tea, an orange juice, a glass of water or anything
else that Lizzie tried to offer her. The flat was now silent aside
from the tense clicking of Rachel's heels on the varnished
floorboards as she paced up and down the sitting room, lizzie, watched her turn on her heel a couple more times and clutched
a cushion to her chest for warmth, for comfort, for protection
and for decency. Rachel was now staring straight ahead of her,
apparently focused. Finally she spoke.
'Listen...'
Lizzie couldn't have been listening any harder.
'I haven't got all day, but I just wanted to give you one more
chance to explain to me what exactly has been going on before
I tell you what I propose that we do about all of this.'
'...that we do about all of this...' Lizzie didn't like the way
that sounded. There was something quite sinister about Rachel
today. She was cold and way too calm. Lizzie couldn't have
been any more scared had Vinnie Jones been standing in front
of her cracking his knuckles.
'And don't even think about lying to me. Matthew has told
me everything and I suggest you do the same.'
Lizzie sighed. Despite her trepidation, she was almost getting
bored with going over it. Each time she came across as a
less nice person. Still, telling Rachel a little bit more of the truth
wasn't going to make things any worse, and suggesting that
she was fed up with recounting the events wasn't going to go
down well.
Rachel started listening calmly, but by the time Clare arrived
back about ten minutes later she was ranting and raving again.
Clare was alarmed at the confrontation taking place in their sitting
room, but despite her kind, breezy and conciliatory offer
of tea and biscuits she was completely ignored by Rachel. As
Clare listened to her lay into Lizzie it was almost as if she was
enjoying herself, as if she'd only come over to hammer the first
nail into the career coffin of Lizzie Ford. Her concern for her
husband and her marriage was nowhere to be seen. Clare soon
tired of pretending to be invisible in the corner and eventually
just joined in. Rachel looked surprised at her interjection, but
she let her finish her introduction at least.
'Rachel, I'm Clare--Lizzie's flatmate.'
Lizzie noted that she hadn't said 'ex' or 'former'. She
silently prayed that this meant she was coming home.
Clare proffered a hand for Rachel to shake, but either she
didn't see it--unlikely, as it was attached to her arm and pointing
directly at her--or she chose to dismiss it as part of her 'I
am beyond reproach' attitude to this meeting. Clare was becoming
increasingly irritated. Just because your husband had
slept with someone else, it didn't mean that you were entitled
to eschew years of training on the manners front.
'I know this really is none of my business...'
Rachel looked as if she were about to step in to confirm this
but Clare didn't give her a chance.
'...but I really think we can sit down and work out a compromise
of some sort. I appreciate yofi must be furious, hurt,
and looking for revenge, but, tempting as it is, I'd just ask you
not to do anything rash until you've had a chance to calm
down a bit first.'
Clare Williamson, restaurateur, mediator and general good
egg was in action. Lizzie watched in awe. Full to the brim with
admiration and grateful that at least one of them was feeling
erudite today and queuing up to put Clare's six-week absence
from the flat behind them.
'Would you now? Well, I don't know what the fuck Lizzie's
told you about all of this, or whether she's fed you the same
patchwork of fact and lies that she's peddled to both me and
to my husband, but it's bullshit...'
OK, so Clare wasn't the most effective mediator in South
West London, but at least she was trying.
Lizzie was fuming. Rachel was bent on making her sound
a hell of a lot more devious and calculating than she had ever
intended to be. This was her reward for jumping through hoop
after hoop, for trying to do the right thing. If only Matt hadn't
bought Rachel a bloody copy of Out Loud magazine, then
Rachel wouldn't have written in, Lizzie could have waited for
Matt to leave his nameless, faceless wife and maybe, just
maybe, they could have lived happily ever after. So it was his
fault.
Her relief at shifting the blame only lasted a couple of milliseconds.
That scenario was no good either. Waiting in the
wings wasn't her style, and she should have known that Matt
was married. How on earth would such an ostensibly nice guy
have got to his mid-thirties and still be available? When she
should have smelt trouble from fifty paces, her optimism and
naivete" had combined to lead her a merry dance. Lizzie knew
that men got the getting married urge when they hit thirty. She
read letters from them and their commitment-phobic girlfriends
every day.
Rachel was now laying into Clare, who'd succeeded in temporarily
diverting the attention away from Lizzie. Big mistake.
If anyone had an ability to bear grudges it was Clare. Rachel
might be about to meet her match. Lizzie hoped so. She felt
like a Plasticine spectator at Celebrity Deathmatch. She had a
ringside seat. This was the wives-who'd-been-let-down-by
their-husbands bout.
'But I suggest that you....you....'
'Clare.' This woman was exasperating. Unwittingly she had
driven Clare to put her hand on her hip, and Clare was now
shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Lone Ranger
eat your heart out. As her aggression boiled in the pit of her
stomach she swaggered from side to side and waited for the
next wave of Rachel's attitude problem. Main Street had come
to Putney.
'I suggest that you...Clare--' she practically spat the name
out '--that you keep your opinions to yourself and keep out
of it--unless, of course, you've been screwing Matthew too...'
Oh, to have had a pistol. There was no need for Rachel to
be so deeply unpleasant. She'd been arguing Rachel's case to
Lizzie all morning and this was all the thanks she got. Clare
excused herself before she started shouting back. She was determined
to keep the moral upper hand. However, she was
careful not to retreat any further than the kitchen, where she
would still be in total earshot range.
Lizzie grimly observed the exchange from her corner of the
sofa. Round One to Rachel. The focus reverted to her.
'I'd like you to think hard about what you've done. And then
have a think about this. Either you give up agony aunting by
the end of the month, or I'm going to your bosses and the papers.
Needless to say, Matthew is off-limits. If I find out you've
been in touch with him, I'm not waiting another minute.'
Lizzie nodded. This was her first ultimatum. She wasn't sure
what the proper procedure was when you were being threatened.
But, well brought up as she had been, she was sure that
this was one occasion when you didn't say thank you. She decided
that silence was probably the most sophisticated ap
proach. It was also the easiest option when you were trying
your hardest not to burst into tears or throw up.
Til see myself out.'
Lizzie--impressively, she thought--had managed to keep
her composure in front of Rachel, but as soon as she had gone
there was absolutely no point in being brave any more. Clare
watched aghast as Lizzie knocked back a couple of ibuprofen
with a Tia Maria chaser. Their drinks cabinet definitely needed
restocking. It was high time she moved back in. Clare removed
the bottle from Lizzie and gave her a glass of mineral water
instead. Lizzie barely seemed to register the change.
'What am I going to do?' Her voice cracked. 'I suppose I'd
better give Susan a call.'
'Don't do anything yet. Rachel said the end of the month,
and luckily for you this storm broke at the start of one.' Clare
was desperately trying to keep positive. No mean feat, given
what she had to work with. 'Listen, June doesn't start for about
three weeks, and I don't think you're in a fit state to do anything
right now. Let alone make any decisions about anything
important.'
'But I can't just bury my head in the sand.'
'I didn't say anything about burying heads anywhere. I just
think you need to give yourself some time to think through all
your options rather than making a knee-jerk decision that you
might regret later.' Clare was buying time. She wasn't sure
what for yet, but whatever it was she was going to need more
than ten minutes. Lizzie didn't even protest and Clare decided
to capitalise on her uncharacteristic submission. 'I suggest
you phone Ben now. I'm sure they don't want you sobbing live
on air for three hours tonight. It won't be good for the listeners'
morale.'
Lizzie flinched visibly. Clare knew how much she loved her
work, and the thought of them having to get a stand-in always
triggered her insecurity circuit and made her worry in case they
didn't want her back.
'Listen, Liz, I'm only suggesting this week. I just think you
need some downtime. You are allowed to be ill, you know.'
Lizzie nodded. But Clare hadn't finished yet. 'Then do your
self a favour, clear the decks and call Susan too. I'm sure
they've got enough from you to be getting on with. If not,
they'll have to get cover.' And, she felt like adding, they might
need to get a new person in at the end of the month. Clare didn't
like to appear defeatist but she wasn't exactly bursting with alternatives
at the moment. 'Right now you need some time to
get a bit of perspective. I know it seems that your world's ending,
but I can tell you that you'll be OK whatever happens. You
are Lizzie Ford. Just remember that. And just in case you forget
I'm going to dispatch you to the one place where you will
get more TLC, home-cooked dinners and general pampering
than anywhere else I know...' Plus, Clare thought, there was
the added bonus that Lizzie wouldn't have enough time on her
own to even contemplate doing anything stupid. Lizzie hadn't
even looked up. 'Yes, I'm booking you into the Mrs Ford
clinic. Not Betty, but Annie. I'll give her a call...or do you want
to?'
'But she doesn't know about any of this. She'll be furious
with me for not telling her earlier and then she'll worry. Nonstop.
You know what she's like.' There was a slight edge of
panic to Lizzie's voice.
'It's her job to worry. She'd hate to think you were going
through a crisis without her. Mothers love to be needed...and
I'll come and visit. You're only going to be in Hampstead, for
God's sake. It's not like I'm suggesting you leave the civilised
world behind.' Not yet, Clare added to herself.
Lizzie shrugged her shoulders. She had no energy to protest.
Plus there was the added bonus that Rachel didn't know where
her mother lived, so she wouldn't have to live in fear of the
doorbell and telephone threats. She only hoped that her mother
wouldn't be too judgmental. Of course she could just not tell
her the whole truth, but lying seemed to have got her into
enough trouble already.
Clare could sense she was on the brink of victory. One of
her plans was going through uncontested. It had to be a first.
She resisted the sudden childish urge she had to the punch the
air victoriously.
'Listen, I'd have loved to take the week off and look after

J
233


you myself, but I've already written today off and they do
need me there this weekend. I can't help but feel that the
change will do you good, and away from all your work at least
you'll have time to think. Meanwhile I'll move my stuff back
in. It'll be just like it was before, and I promise I'll come and
fetch you a week on Saturday.'
'That's...' There was a momentary pause while Lizzie
counted them out on her fingers. 'Nine days...'
'Not very long at all, then.' Clare was determined to get her
to go. She needed time to think too, and Lizzie festering at
home all day was only going to hinder her progress.
'But I suppose if it all gets too much I can just get a cab back
here earlier...'
'Of course. I'm suggesting you stay at your mother's for a
bit, not that you go into exile.'
Lizzie smiled for the first time that day. Clare was right, as
usual. Thank God someone had taken charge. When Clare said
it, it all sounded so simple. Take a week off. Go home. Think. Sleep. Put it all in perspective. She'd missed this. Clare hadn't
even been back for a day and already it felt better. Much
calmer. More balanced. Who needed Feng Shui when you had
Clare? And besides, they already had a water feature in Lizzie.
'Thank you.' It was all Lizzie could manage. Right now, between
the waves of narcolepsy that were trying to persuade her
to assume the hibernation position, her mind was cluttered
with deadlines, headlines, threats and alternative life plans.
With Clare practically dialling for her, Lizzie rang Susan,
Robyn and Ben and told them she needed a few days off. She
didn't need to act. She sounded and felt appalling. They all told
her to rest up and take her time getting better. Even Ben, who
only had precisely five and a half hours to get a replacement
or talk to the head of department about rescheduling her slot.
Obviously Lizzie was not as indispensable as she'd thought.
In her current state Lizzie couldn't even work out whether this
was a good or a bad thing.

'Will you ring her? Please?' Exhausted by all her phoning, lizzie, was back to being girlus patheticus on the sofa.
'She's your mum.'
'But you know what she can be like. She'll be a paragon of
concern if you call and just cross with me for not saying anything
earlier if I do it. Besides, I'd rather tell her face to face
than have to go over it all again on the phone...and it's always
easier to be perfectly lovely to a mother when she's not your
own.'
'What drivel, Liz. You're being pathetic and you know it.'
Lizzie reluctantly took the proffered handset from Clare
and then promptly gave it back. 'Please. I just don't know
where to start. Anyway, sending me to stay with her was your
idea not mine.'
And so Clare rang Annie.

Annie Ford didn't come to the flat very often. Lizzie hadn't
given her mother a key to try and discourage spontaneous visits
and general snooping, but when she did visit she certainly
made the most of it. In anticipation Clare had embarked on a
mammoth fold-and-put-away-athon and wiped all the surfaces
down. Thanks to her industry Annie's self-guided tour-cum
nose-around-and-run-a-finger-along-the-shelves wasn't going
to take very long.
Clare went down to answer the door. Lizzie was currently
staring into her wardrobe and wondering what to pack. What did you take into the emotional and professional wilderness?
She didn't seem to have a white floaty kaftan number anywhere,
even though she could have sworn she'd bought something
similar from Oasis a couple of years ago in the whole
Moroccan boho look that had never really been designed for
her. Oh, well. It was going to have to be jeans. She was going
to have to do her retreat in denim. But then she spotted her
white waffle dressing gown, perfect for a crisis, and threw it
into her bag to join the mounting collection of items that each
had their individual merits but didn't really go with each other.
A comfort blanket of a T-shirt went in next.
'I got here as soon as I could. We always play Bridge on
Thursday afternoons and I couldn't let the girls down. You
know how it is.'
Clare wasn't sure that she did know how it was. She wasn't
an afficionado herself, but as far as she could remember Bridge
was a card game and Lizzie was a daughter. But, to be fair, she
supposed it wasn't a life or death situation--and maybe when
she got to Annie's age and lived on her own she'd be set in her
ways too. She liked her regular appointments. She needed to
feel needed. Luckily for Annie, needy was Lizzie's new middle
name.
'How is she?' Annie was worried. Clare had given her very
little information over the phone.
'She's been better. She just needs a bit of TLC, an alcohol
free environment and some time to think.'
'What on earth has happened? And why do I always feel that
I'm the last person to know? We used to be so close, you know,
we were best friends...'
Clare smiled. Somehow she doubted it. Closer than most,
yes, but best friends...? Annie had always liked to think that
despite the dysfunction all around her she had raised the perfect
family.
'Now she never tells me anything... Is it a man thing or a
work thing? And what about her show tonight? Oh, God, she
hasn't been sacked, has she?'
Clare shook her head. 'Of course not. She's fantastic at her
job; you know that.'
Annie at least had the decency to look apologetic. 'Of
course. Of course I do. But she can't just let everyone down at
the last minute.'
'Don't worry, the station are getting cover for her. She's
really in no fit state...'
Annie tut-tutted. No wonder Lizzie had a complex about
getting a stand-in.
'Look, I'll let her fill you in. She's very upset, though, so
please go easy on her.'
'Of course.'
Despite Annie's reassurance to the contrary, Clare knew
that she would employ her entire repertoire of extortion tactics
as soon as she was on her own with Lizzie.
Lizzie had pulled herself together for her mother. She was
incredibly pale, and there wasn't enough Optrex in the world
to make her eyes sparkle, but she was doing her very best and
Clare was proud of her.
'Hi, Mum.' As Annie hugged Lizzie the familiar scents of
Imperial Leather and Chanel N° 5 washed over her, and Lizzie
felt herself relax. She hated to admit it but it was a relief to
know that she was going to be looked after for the next few
days. She was only too ready to opt out of being a grown-up
for a while.
'Hello, darling. You've gone and got yourself into a right
pickle again, haven't you?'
Lizzie's projected idyll of the next few days shattered.
Pickle. She was a single woman in her thirties with a huge
fucking crisis on her hands. She was not, however, in, next to,
or remotely close to...a pickle. Maybe Hampstead was a spectacularly
bad idea. She stole a glance at Clare, who was struggling
to control the corners of her mouth which were definitely
upturned in light of the whole pickle moment.
Annie stroked her daughter's hair. 'You've always been a
one. Jonathan was so easy. Look at him now. Lovely wife,
wonderful children, and you--well, you've done fantastically
well at work, but you've never really managed to settle. You
need some stability. But you probably get it from your father.
He was difficult to live with. Always wanted everything on his
own terms...'
Lizzie could feel herself prickling. All she wanted was a bit
of innocuous everything-will-be-aU-right-if-you-just-eat-this
biscuit-and-drink-this-cup-of-tea. But then she realised she'd
picked the wrong mother for that.
'Has this whole thing got anything to do with that chap who
sent you flowers at Christmas time? Or that dishy guy from
the agency Alex and I caught you having lunch with in Richmond?'
Trust
her mother, now in her sixties, to still have a photographic
memory.
Clare's eyebrows shot skywards. She didn't know anything
about man number two. Lizzie decided to clear it up straight
away. No more secrets.
'It has everything to do with him. It was the same guy.'
'But he had a different...'Annie spoke slowly and then
stopped herself triumphantly when she worked it out for herself.
'Ahhh...I see...'
She wasn't exactly Agatha Christie. A name-change was
hardly the most cunning of disguises, but it had done the trick.
Masterful.
A quick glance across to Clare and Lizzie was thrilled to
note that on this occasion she looked relieved rather than disapproving.
They were definitely making progress. Annie, encouraged
by her moment of detection, hadn't finished yet. Her
opinions were always valued--well, she'd always thought so.
'You're still looking for the one, aren't you? I blame those
books you used to read as a child. You know--the ones about
doctors and nurses and true love.'
'Mum. Stop it. Sorry I can't be more like good old Jonathan
and Alex. And I'm sorry I remind you of Dad. I know how
much of a disappointment I must be for you. No husband, no
children, and a career where I get to say masturbate and orgasm
on the radio...'
Annie looked decidedly unflustered. If Lizzie was going to
try and provoke a reaction she was going to have to try a lot
harder than that.
'Anyway, just for your information, this time I thought I had
met the perfect man. It wasn't my fault that he was married
and didn't tell me. Besides, it's not like you and Dad got it fantastically
right, is it? You of all people should know about the
realities of relationships.'
Her mother paused for a moment before replying. Just long enough to make a point. To let her daughter know that the invisible
mark had been overstepped. Lizzie knew her last com
ment had been a bit underhand, but she didn't need her mother
making her feel useless. She'd managed to do that all by herself.
'Mum,
it's not as simple as it first appears. I promise I'll fill
you in with as much detail as you want when we get home.
Even I can't believe how complicated it's all become.'
Clare nodded supportively and beamed at Annie, hoping to
melt her approach just a fraction.
'OK, darling, I'm only trying to help. You know how much
I love you.'
Sometimes, Lizzie thought to herself. Sometimes.
'Let's get going. Why don't we get an Indian takeaway
tonight and you can fill me in? I think I've even got some of
that beer in bottles that you like.'
Lizzie didn't like to ruin the moment by asking her how old
they were. Annie had a well-intentioned habit of filling her
cupboards with things that Lizzie had once mentioned that she
'quite liked' and had been buying Hob Nobs religiously since
the day Lizzie had once stated a preference for them when she
was at university. She took a bottle of red wine from the rack
in the kitchen and stuffed it into her bag. Just in case.
Clare piled Lizzie's bags into the car and promised to bring
anything she'd forgotten when she popped in to visit. Her
mother just stopped short of fastening her seat belt for her. Talk
about undermining her sense of self. For the second time in
ten minutes Lizzie wondered how on earth Clare had talked
her into this.
Clare waved them off before returning to the flat, and would
have rolled her sleeves up if she hadn't been wearing a T-shirt.
She had a plan of sorts. Well, at least a starting point. She went
into Lizzie's study and turned on the computer.
chapter

Won't be a minute, mate.'
Matt wrestled with his keys before flinging the front door
open and legging it up to the bedroom in search of his trainers.
Tennis after work. Who was he kidding? He hadn't
watched a game since Boris Becker had won his first Wimbledon
and he hadn't wielded a racket for at least five years.
He'd just have to wing it and pray his body remembered what
hand-eye co-ordination was all about.
But tonight wasn't about skill. According to reliable sources,
James was soon going to have a spare room. Ritualistic humiliation
on an astro-turf court was a small price to pay for an
exit route. Matt was hatching a long-overdue plan. Whatever
happened next, things had to change.
Now, standing in the bedroom--their bedroom--in the unfamiliar
and soulless early-evening silence, he felt a momentary
pang of something. Hunger? He consulted his watch.
Probably. He loved this house, but in the last few months it had
ceased to feel Like home.
Since last night Rachel had been treating him worse than
ever. He couldn't blame her for that. But amazingly, despite
the subsequent showdown, she still wasn't listening. He'd
apologised, then tried to explain, told her the truth. She said
she wasn't interested in what she dismissed as his opinion and
that it would all be fine in a few months. She refused to get the
message. Said that he deserved to suffer. But as usual she was
missing the point. He'd been suffering for months. Rachel
wasn't the only injured party. This wasn't just about her.
Over the past few weeks he'd spent countless hours trying
to see things from Lizzie's point of view. At best he'd been a
naive, indecisive, two-timing, dithering male. At worst he'd
been devious and calculating. It was time for him to take control.
He should have done this months ago.
A sliver of hope was enough to power him for now. He'd
sent Lizzie flowers to pave the way, but he hadn't called. After
everything she'd been through it was time to show her that he
meant what he'd said. Actions speaking louder than words
and all that jazz. He didn't want to imitate the perennial Nick
Hornby anti-hero, the too nice boy who got it wrong or left it
too late; he wanted the happy ending. He wanted emotional
completeness. And right now he wanted his left Nike... He
glimpsed a lace protruding from under a pile of clothes by the
window and, rummaging to the bottom, found the missing
trainer.
He hoped James was feeling compassionate.

Maybe Lizzie had been right. Maybe Rachel wasn't the perfect
wife that Clare had presumed her to be. Anyway, she
couldn't just sit around--and Lizzie was currently in as fit a
state to help herself as your average suicide bomber. It was time
for Clare to take matters into her own hands. Not in some mad
vigilante sawn-off-shotgun-drive-by-shooting manner but in
the old-fashioned way, by talking.
Her detective work had paid off. She'd located all Rachel's
contact numbers from the autosignature at the bottom of her
e-mails, but there was one immediate psychological hurdle.
From the lengthy disclaimer that preceded every message sent
by Rachel Clare now knew that she worked at CDH. Not high
on her list of places to swing by, the D being for Dexter--Joe
Dexter--chief love rat and ex-husband--the latter, a piece of
life's baggage collection which still sounded like something
she was far too young to have. But if Clare wanted to see
Rachel she'd have to go back to a building filled with ghosts
from a previous life. She'd definitely hated him then, but if she
was honest she was mellowing in her approach. However, forgiveness in absentia was one thing. Face to face was another.
She dug out her best black trouser suit for the occasion and
at 4:30 p.m. on Friday afternoon she swept into the eerily familiar
reception area. She was hoping to catch Rachel off her
guard, but first she had to get the full attention of the receptionist.
'Clare
Dexter...my God it is you. How the devil are you?
Long time no see.'
A familiar voice, still steeped with plum. Clare wheeled. Ed
Wallace. One of Joe's better-looking, more genuine friends.
'Ed? God. A blast from the past. I didn't know you worked
here.'
v A blast from the past? Had she really said that? Aloud?
Next she'd be adding 'jolly good wheeze' to her vernacular.
She must be nervous if she was allowing her Enid Blyton
back-catalogue of well-loved idioms to run riot. She was seriously
in danger of being fifty years out of date--quite an
achievement when you were only thirty-three years old.
'I don't. I think Joe would quite like to get me on board, but
until he makes me an offer I can't refuse I'm just visiting.'
'That makes two of us. I've just popped in to see Rachel
Baker.' Please don't ask me what about. Please don't ask me
what about. Clare was saved from having to fabricate a reason
for her meeting. Ed didn't seem at all interested in why
she was in lihe building.
'So what are you up to these days? You're looking gorgeous.
Black really suits you. Very sophisticated.'
Ed had always been a smoothie. Who didn't look good in
black? But a compliment never went amiss.
'I'm still doing the restaurant thing.'

'Fantastic. That place worked out, did it? Great... Whereabouts
was it again? Sorry--you know what I'm like...mem
ory not my forte. Sometimes I struggle to remember where I
live at the end of the day. Please don't take it personally.'
'I won't. It's in Notting Hill.'
'You trendy young thing.'
'Not so young and not so trendy these days, I'm afraid.'
'What's it called again? God, I'm hopeless. Good job I've
never got married. I'd probably have trouble remembering her
name.'
'Why do you think so many couples call each other darling?'
'Ha!
Good point. I'd never thought about it like that.'
'Anyway, it's called Union Jack's.'
'I think I've heard of it...'
'Probably from me...'
'No. No. Oh, ye of little faith... Just give me a minute.
British food with a twist and the odd celebbo hanging out
there?'
Clare smiled and nodded. The power of celebrity never
ceased to amaze her. Why was it that if people had been on television
or in a magazine they were instantly more interesting?
'That's the one.'
'So what on earth brings you to CDH on a Friday evening?
Hot date?' For some reason Clare blushed. Nothing could be
further from the truth. 'Does JD know you're here?'
JD was what Joe had been called at college. Ed had endured
three years at London University with him and so had earned
the right to call him by his initials.
'Of course not.'
'Such a shame, you know.'
'Ed...'
'I know, I know--none of my business. I just thought that
you two... I mean, he'll never...' 'This is your first official warning, Mr Wallace.'
'Got it.'
'It's a long time ago now. In two months we'll have been
divorced for two years.'
'Is it really? Unbelievable.'



A silence. Awkward? Reflective? Just a natural break? It was
hard to tell.
Clare had always liked Ed. He was just one of the many casualties
of her divorce, when people who had been 'their'
friends had all regrouped into the 'mine and yours' camps post
decree nisi. A shame. Ed could always be counted on to be
hugely entertaining. Usually at his own expense.
'So, have you got to dash off right now or have you got time
for a quick beer for old times' sake? I've got to be at some
hideous leaving party later, but I don't have to leave for an hour
or so.'
Clare looked at her watch. 4:35. She could spare half an
hour. 'That would be lovely.' She really meant it. Ed Wallace
was good for the soul. And a sip of Dutch, French, Australian
or even Russian courage wouldn't go amiss.
After the standard What are you up to? and Where are you
living? lines of questioning, and tongues loosened by an inter
beer round of vodka and tonic, they moved onto mutual acquaintances.
Luckily Ed, like most blokes she knew, was only
too happy to volunteer all the information he had on everyone
she asked about.
Fortunately, Clare mused, men have never really grasped the
tactics necessary for a good gossip. Ed hadn't saved up any ammunition
to exchange for more confidential info from Clare
later. But thanks to his candour Clare now knew that Joe was
still not in a serious relationship and strangely she was pleased.
To bolster her ego further, in an equally only-makes-sense-if
you're-female way, Ed harped on a bit more about the fact that
everyone had thought that Joe would never find anyone as
special as Clare again--although he couldn't be sure whether
anyone had bothered to tell Joe that was what they'd thought
at the time, or just tacitly bought him a few beers to help him
deal with putting it all behind him.
Ed grilled Clare about her love life and Clare did her utmost
to make it sound a little less than non-existent. She knew that
any information would be relayed to Joe and so adopted the
enigmatic smile, less is more approach, disclosing nothing,
which Ed fortunately and predictably took to mean everything.
244
Jane Sigaloff


Ed lapped it all up as Clare ordered another round and started
to make her excuses. Five-fifteen. She couldn't afford to miss
Rachel.
Ed, it seemed, had another twenty questions.
'So you're here to see Charlie's Angel. Business or pleasure?
I didn't realise you knew her.'
Clare had no idea what Ed was on about. Charlie's Angel?
Maybe he didn't need another drink.
Ed obviously spotted Clare's confused expression. 'You did
say you were seeing Rachel Baker back there, didn't you? Or
am I imagining it all?'
'Yes...I've got a meeting with her...'
Clare racked the creative banks of her brain to try and come
up with a professional reason for having an appointment with
her at all.
'She called me about organising a do at the restaurant. I
don't think she knows that I'm Joe's ex-wife. I'm sure he'll be
over the moon if she proposes CDH have a party there.'
Clare decided to quit while she was ahead on the tall story
front. Ed didn't seem to think there was anything amiss, which
was a relief. It suddenly occurred to her vodka-sullied mind
that Ed's seemingly bizarre 'Charlie's Angel' reference was in
some way connected to Rachel. But how had Rachel become
associated with the trio of seventies sirens? Maybe she had a
secret penchant for tight jumpsuits, blonde layers or lipgloss?
'When you said Charlie's Angel...you meant Rachel, didn't
you?'
' Yup. Sorry. I didn't stop to think that an in-house nickname
would mean diddly-squat to you. I used to work with her before
she joined CDH. Rachel has always been known as Charlie's
Angel--or just Angel throughout her department.
1 'Oh..:
Clare thanked her lucky stars that she had nothing to do with
the sbrt of industry where you had cliquey nicknames for people
you worked with. The sort of industry where people still
said things like diddly-squat... But on reflection that was probably
just Ed.
'So how did the Angel get her nickname?'
245


Clare just had to ask. She just had to know if it was the jumpsuit
thing.
'Filthy coke habit.'
Clare nearly slid off her bar stool.
Ed was so matter-of-fact about it. Maybe she had misheard?
Obviously she had 'shocked' written across her forehead.
Ed laughed.
'Good to see that you're just as innocent as you always
were.'
Clare made a rapid recovery and punched Ed playfully.
'Listen, I'm not that naive. I'm just a bit surprised, that's all.
Isn't she masterminding the anti-drugs campaign at the moment?'
Ed
smiled at Clare's well-intentioned concern.
'She is--yes. I suppose it's a little ironic, but then there
aren't too many people in the industry--and even fewer at her
level--who haven't dabbled once or twice. No one can afford
to be judgmental, and to be honest no one really cares as long
as the job gets done well or, better still, they get an award and
some international recognition. From what I hear she's got
everything under control, and as long as she can handle it no
one in the industry is going to bat an eyelid. Unless you are,
in fact, an undercover tabloid hack and not a restaurateur at all,
Rachel has nothing to worry about...'
Clare laughed. She could do this innocent, carefree, takeeverything-in-your-stride
thing when she had to. But her mind
had lurched into overdrive. It appeared there were no saints in
this little love triangle. The question was, How to play it?
What if Ed's knowledge was just hearsay? Alternatively; Ed
might just have earned himself 'hero of the month' status in
Putney. Clare hated to admit it, but she was obviously a bit
squarer than she had thought. The only coke habit she had was
the diet variety...even if she was partial to a few rocks of ice
with it.
'She's quite a character. She seems to get away with letting
young, talented, good-looking men do most of her work for
her. Or, what I should say, if I am being politically correct, is

¦ III
246Jane Sigaloff

that she puts a good team together. She lives and loves the high
life.
'Don't you all?'
'Well, I suppose there might be a small element of truth in
that...'
'Oh, come off it, Ed. Advertising is one big piss up.
Launches, awards, lunches, team-building drinks. Don't forget
I was a Grosvenor House widow once...'
'It's quietened down in the last couple of years.'
'Of course it has.' Clare gave Ed her best and-of-course-I
was-born-yesterday look. He smiled to acknowledge it as he
continued.
'But all credit to her she's made the system work for her.
Rachel plays the game better than anyone I know. Watch this
space. She's going all the way to the top.'
Ed picked up his glass and drank to Rachel's success. Clare
used the break in conversation to look at her watch as pointedly
as she could without actually rolling up her sleeve and
bringing her wrist up to her nose. She feigned shock at the time,
even though she didn't have an appointment per se.
'Shit--sorry, Ed, but I'm going have to shoot off. Thank you
so much. Fantastic to see you.'
She leant over and gave him a kiss. He beamed at her.
'Hey, no problem. It was only a drink.'
Oh, but it wasn't. 'Seriously, it was great to see you.'
Ed Wallace's ego was responding well to its massage. He
was beaming.
'We should do it again. Maybe go the whole hog and do dinner
too?'
'Definitely. Why don't you come over to Union Jack's and
I'll give you the five-star treatment? On me, of course.'
Clare had better watch herself. At the delighted expression
on Ed's face she suddenly panicked that in the excitement of
the moment she might have been sending out the wrong vibes.
She didn't want Ed telling Joe that she'd gone and flung herself
at him.
'Deal.'
'What's your number? Just in case the hanging-around-an
ad-agency-lobby trick doesn't work twice.'
Ed laughed.
They programmed each others numbers into their mobiles
in true twenty-first century style and promised to call each
other. Gone were the days of scribbling deliberately unintelligible
phone numbers on scraps of paper and pretending you'd
lost them should the other party track you down. But Clare
promised herself that she would give Ed a call. He'd earned a
dinner, even if he would never know why.
chapter

At 5:58 Clare entered Rachel Baker's corner office for their
second introduction in twenty-eight hours and closed the door
behind her for maximum dramatic effect.
'Rachel'
'Clare.' If she was surprised to see her, it didn't show. She
glanced towards the desk where Kitty sat, ostensibly to protect
her from flatmates of husband's mistresses just marching
in unannounced, and rapped on the window of her door. Startled,
Kitty looked up for long enough to see her boss mouth
'glasses' at her.
Clare didn't wait to be offered a seat and sat down on the
sofa. Beneath her carefully applied mask of make-up Rachel
looked tired. The effect, Clare was sure, of an incredibly long
week. Rachel perched on the edge of her desk. The last thing
she needed was a do-gooder of a flatmate getting in her way.
Where was Kitty with those glasses? She really needed a drink.
'I don't remember inviting you to my office?'
'I invited myself.'
'And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?'
Every one of Rachel's words was intended to make Clare
feel as unwelcome as possible. She was glad that she'd decided
on her thickest skin under her suit. From the minute she had
locked the front door she had known this was going to be a
tough one. She decided to take the more softly-softly approach
and at least see how far that got her.
'Look, Rachel. You can guess why I'm here. Lizzie is so desperately
sorry. She never meant for any of this to happen. By
the time Matt told her that he was married she was already up
to her eyeballs. She had no idea that you had anything to do
with him until much later on, at which point she did everything in her power to get you two back together at the expense of
her own happiness.'
'My heart bleeds.' How could she be expected to feel anything
other than contempt for someone who couldn't even
fight their own battles?
'Believe me, Rachel, Lizzie is very sorry.'
'I don't see her cluttering up my office, begging for my forgiveness.
Look, I appreciate your concern but I'm busy. I've
got deadlines to meet. Lizzie should've thought about the consequences
before she started sleeping with my husband.' Boy,
she needed a drink. Thank God for artificial stimulants. She
owed her career to nicotine, coke, Diet Coke, espresso and Red
Bull.
Thankfully Kitty had finally located a couple of clean
glasses and was now waving them at Rachel through the door.
Why she couldn't just knock and enter with them like a normal
PA, she had no idea. It felt as if everyone was conspiring
against her to make her week as difficult as possible. Grumpily,
Rachel waved Kitty in.
'Here you go. Wasn't sure what sort you wanted, so I just
brought tumblers. Harvey says you can drink anything out of
this sort.'
'Thanks.'
Rachel didn't give a flying fuck what Harvey thought, but
this was not the time to tell her PA to ditch her boyfriend and
find someone with a proper name and a job that didn't involve
computer programs. Kitty was now hovering by the door, shifting
her weight almost imperceptibly from foot to foot. She'd
either just wet herself or she wanted to go home. It was, according
to the clock on her computer, 6:06. Rachel wished she
would just bloody go.
'Um...if it's all right with you, I think I'll head off now. Have
a good weekend. I'll be in early Monday, so if you need anything
typed up or filed before your ten o'clock just leave it for
me and it shall be done.' Kitty made it sound like a favour instead
of it being what she was paid to do.
'Thanks.'
Kitty closed the door behind her and only stopped at her
desk for a couple of seconds to pick up her bag and turn her
computer off before practically sprinting out of the semi-deserted
office. Rachel wasted no time in reaching into her most
coveted piece of office furniture and liberating a bottle of
white wine which had been chilling all afternoon. Her
lunchtime intake had worn off a while ago. Rachel offered a
glass to Clare out of courtesy--very generous, she thought,
given the circumstances. To her surprise Clare accepted. Obviously
Clare was a little bit less uptight than Rachel had
thought.
Confidence bolstered by a couple of sips, Clare stepped it
up a gear. 'For the record, Lizzie has no idea that I'm here and
she'd be mortified if she found out. She knows she's done
wrong, and she's confused. She can't see any way forward. I
just wanted to talk to you--career woman to career woman. I
know how you must be feeling.'
'The fuck you do. You can't have the first idea. To know that
your husband has been having an affair is devastating enough,
without discovering that the person he was seeing was someone
that you knew and trusted. Someone, I might just add, who
in her professional capacity was supposed to be helping me.'
Rachel was no less aggressive in her response, but at least
sitting down with a glass in her hand she had stopped shouting.
'Just
give me a minute and listen to what I've got to say.
We've got more in common than you think. I've been married.'
Rachel softened a little at Clare's use of the past tense.
'What happened?' Despite herself, Rachel was curious. She'd

I
Name & Address Withheld251


never have guessed that Clare had been married. She had single-woman-in-her-thirties
written all over her.
'He was in advertising too. He worked all hours and had an
affair with a colleague less than six months after we got back
from our honeymoon. I was setting up a restaurant business at
the time and was totally wrapped up in what I was doing--only
I thought he was right behind me, not running about behind
my back. I only found out when a friend of mine showed me
a picture in one of our trades. The photo was actually meant
to show off the interior of a new gastrodome, but they'd taken
it on the night of an agency party and there was my husband
in glorious Technicolor, draped around her...'
Up until now Clare had managed to be fairly matter-of-fact,
but a hint of emotion entered her voice as she started to think
about the details. The feelings that she'd buried for the last two
years were starting to defrost. Their marriage had become a
statistic. If only he hadn't done it, they might even have had a
child by now.
'I know having your arm round someone is hardly grounds
for" divorce, but there was something about the way that she
was looking at him. I got suspicious. After two days of telling
myself to calm down I confronted him and he confessed. He
told me it had all been a mistake and even tried to make me
feel better by telling me that they'd only spent one night together.
But I've never believed that you can sleep with someone
"by accident" full stop...'
She paused for dramatic effect.
'...let alone four times in one night.'

Clare smiled resignedly despite herself. It was tragic. Tragically
funny. Rachel, she was pleased to see, was looking totally
shocked. Everything was going according to plan.
'What did you do?'
'What choice did I have? I threw him out. He begged to
come home and I told him to fuck off. It was over. I was devastated.
I loved him...'
Unsure of what to say next, Rachel poured more wine. She
had to admit that she was impressed at Clare's cut-throat attitude.
He cheated, therefore he was ejected. Maybe she was
turning into a softie in her old age. Clare was still in full flow.
Rachel interrupted her self-questioning. She was genuinely interested
in what Clare had to say.
'I never thought I'd recover...but I did. I have. I don't even
hate him any more. I suppose I'm just sad it ended the way it
did. I always believed that you got married and that was it. He
ruined my fantasy of marriage and my Martha Stewart outlook
on life.'
Clare stole a glance and was relieved to see that Rachel
couldn't have looked any more sympathetic.
'Did you ever find out who he had the affair with?'
'Yes. It gets worse. I couldn't tell from the picture in the
magazine, but I later discovered that I'd met her before. She
was at our wedding.' Clare smiled again. She couldn't help it.
Objectively, in retrospect, despite her high hopes her marriage
had been a complete farce. And if she couldn't see the funny
side at this point she would most certainly have cried.
'Well, it sounds like you were very pragmatic about it all.'
'Believe me, I was much less sorted at the time. Looking
back on it, there are times when I think I might have shot myself
in the foot. I was so proud. I told myself that I could never
forgive him. Yet there are still mornings when I wake up wondering
if I did the right thing. Life's not perfect. I'm not perfect.
So why should I have expected him to be? I sometimes
wonder if we should have worked through it, or at least tried
to. My anger was all-consuming. I wasn't capable of thinking
straight. Now I know lots of people whose marriages have survived
an affair. Sure, it takes time, but there's usually two
sides to every story--and while everyone's always quick to
judge your relationship, only the two people at the heart of it
know what they have had or could have again.'
'Do you still see your ex?'
'Never. I decided to cut all ties at the time. I was too hurt.
All he seemed to care about was his work, and even when he
was begging to come back it was only in between meetings. I
know you advertising people have some crazy deadlines to
meet, but it's all about priorities and I felt I was coming second
to his job. And to think that he'd made time to shag some
other girl when we hadn't even been married a year... I suppose
now it might be different, but my life's hectic enough
without meeting ex-husbands for a drink from time to time. No,
looking back on it, it was probably a lucky escape, a blessing
in disguise...'
Rachel wondered who Clare was convincing. Her or herself.
'I guess I've become a bit of a fatalist. If we'd been meant
to be together I think it would have worked out. He's climbed
his way to the top, and I haven't been there getting in his way.
I run a successful business. If you remove the emotions from
the equation you could say that it was the best thing for both
of us.'
Clare was delighted when Rachel came over to join her on the sofa. This was much more promising than the locking of
horns which had appeared inevitable when she'd first arrived.
Rachel sat back, resting her head on the cushions. They there
were, united in Chablis. One divorced. One debating what to
do next. It was Rachel's turn to share.
'It's interesting. I know what you mean, but I think I know
what your husband was going through too. I love my job. I love
the people. I love the challenges. Between you and me this
campaign I'm working on is going really well. I don't know
whether...she--' Rachel couldn't bear to use Lizzie's name at
the moment'--told you, but it's the new national anti-drugs
campaign. It launches next week and it's going to be huge. This
could be my meal ticket to the top.'
There was a momentary pause while Rachel admired the
view from the heights to which she hoped to climb.
'What's your surname, Clare? If your ex is still in advertising,
you never know I might know him. The industry is a small
world.'
'Oh, I think you'll know him...'

He was probably strutting around an enormous office a few
floors up. Clare was looking forward to Rachel's reaction to
this piece of news. The build-up had gone perfectly. 'My surname
is Williamson, but that's my maiden name; I took it'back
after the divorce. My married name was Dexter. My husband
was--;'
'Joe?' Rachel interrupted her straight away.
Clare nodded.
Rachel's face was a picture of disbelief and admiration. 'I
don't believe it.'
Clare could tell that Rachel was impressed, even if she was
doing her best to disguise it. Joe had been a great catch. She
felt her credibility with Rachel had just leapt up a few hundred
points. A small consolation for the pain he'd put her through,
but it was something. His betrayal still hurt her more than she
liked to admit even to herself. Why else would she have flown
off the handle and treated Lizzie that way? Thinking about it
now, she realised she couldn't blame the woman he'd slept
with--just as Rachel couldn't blame Lizzie, if she thought
about it. It was convenient for a wife not to have to blame her
own husband for an affair but it wasn't fair. And it wasn't real.
Clare owed Lizzie a little more understanding. Blind fury had
left quite a trail of destruction in its wake.
Rachel's mood had done an about-turn, and the new Rachel
was almost dancing round her office, pointing out framed pictures
of tables at awards dinners. Clare feigned blase and declined
Rachel's repeated invitations to come and peer at
pictures of Joe in black tie, even though part of her was dying
to have a look. Fat? Thin? Hair? No hair? Clare's image of him
was frozen in time, and nearly two years out of date.
'Joe Dexter. I can't believe it.'
It must be about the fifth time she'd said it.
His name still provoked a reflex reaction in her central nervous
system. She could picture herself at the altar, taking
Joseph Arthur Dexter to be her lawful wedded husband. Even
now she could feel the hurt and anger as she remembered the
humiliation she'd felt when she accused him and he confessed
to his infidelity. Clare had thought she'd feel vindicated but instead
she had been devastated.
'I'm amazed. Joe was married? Our Joe Dexter?
No, Clare felt like saying. My Joe Dexter.
'He must have fallen for you in a big way. He's always been
a bit of a player. He still is. But it's worked for him. Only thirty
seven and already a partner in one of London's biggest agencies.'
Rachel
was beside herself. She wondered how many people
on her floor knew that he had been married. What a scoop.
Boy, did she have some gossip for Monday morning. She was
itching to tell someone. She might just have to call Will in a
minute. She couldn't help herself. Joe was a terminal playboy...and
a divorce" after an affair with a colleague. She wondered
who the 'four times a night' girl had been.
'You're well out of there, Clare. I'm sure I don't need to tell
you that everyone loves Joe, but I can't imagine anything
worse than being married to him. I suppose, if you think about
it, advertising is a touchy-feely industry run by lots of beautiful
people, so you shouldn't be surprised when temptation
wins. But, having said all that, it's funny--I never thought Matt
would be the unfaithful type.'
'Funnily enough I didn't have Joe down as a love rat when
I bought the big white dress. I don't know that there is a type
either. Everyone loves to be loved and needs to be needed. In
my experience men don't like having to compete with your career
on a daily basis, but sometimes I think people hang on for
the wrong reasons.'
There was nothing more that she could do. So far Rachel
had listened. Clare had bitten her tongue on several occasions
and hopefully the crucial seeds had been sown.
'Look, I'd better be off. I know how busy you are. But,
please, take stock before you set out to ruin Lizzie's life. You
won't want to hear this, but in some ways you and Lizzie are
very similar. You're both ambitious. You're both in the ascendant
of your careers. She couldn't be any sorrier for what's
happened. Just bear in mind that revenge might make you feel
better in the short term but, painful as it may seem now, it takes
two to have an affair.'
It had all been going like clockwork, right up until the last
seven words had left her mouth. Now Clare could feel the office
temperature changing around her. ¦
'Are you saying that this was my fault?' Rachel's tone was
ultra-defensive.

I

256

Jane Sigaloff



'Of course not. I'm just saying that Lizzie isn't the only one
to blame. I know for a fact that if Matt had told her he was married
when they first met Lizzie wouldn't have seen him again,
and she certainly wouldn't have slept with him. She'd never
have deliberately subjected anyone to what you've been
through. I suppose you could count yourself lucky that Matt
picked Lizzie to have an affair with. At least she sent him back
home when she realised what was going on.'
Rachel could feel her hackles rising. Who the hell did Clare
think she was? They'd only met once before and now, after a
little heart to heart, she seemed to think she'd earned the right
to stand in her office and tell her that she should be grateful
that Matt had picked Lizzie to sleep with.
'Lizzie should have thought about her career before she
started screwing around with a married man. She's supposed
to help people with their problems, not go out there and generate
more. Someone has to expose her hypocritical behaviour.
She's not the person people think she is.'
The woman had a nerve. If Ed was to be believed, Lizzie
didn't have the exclusive on hypocritical behaviour. Clare decided
to do a very un-Clare thing and gamble. She had nothing
to lose and, more to the point, Lizzie presently had little
to keep.
'I think you might want to reconsider.'
'Really?' Rachel doubted it. Frankly, she was getting bored.
Clare could take her holier-than-thou am-dram attitude and just
piss off as far as she was concerned. 'Look, if you must persist
with your campaign to clear Lizzie's name, I suggest you
liaise with Kitty on Monday and make an appointment to see
me--like everyone else has to round here.'
'I'd slow down if I were you...' Rachel's increasingly hostile
mood was only going to make her part more fun. 'After
all, it appears that you're no angel either...'
Clare said the word 'angel' very slowly.
She didn't know if it was just her imagination, but she
thought she saw Rachel sit up a little straighter. Her expression
didn't change. She was an impressively cool customer.
lro

Name & Address Withheld
257






But there was no way that Clare was going to let her wheedle
her way out of this one. 'I'm sure that your clients would be
very interested to hear about your cocaine habit. Thought you'd
road-test a few of the products, did you? I'd hazard a guess that
your fast track to the top would be over if wind of this got to
a national newspaper. Not quite the publicity the campaign was
hoping for, I imagine.'
Rachel felt as if she had been turned inside out. Surely
blackmail was only administered under the cover of night? And
it wasn't even dark yet. But despite the defensive surge of instinctive
anger she knew she was in trouble. She could feel the
shakes spreading down her arms. Nothing must go wrong with
the campaign now. This was to be her greatest moment.
Clare had everything crossed. Beneath her calm, collected
veneer her heart was racing. She knew that she had no concrete
evidence. But her confidence was boosted by Rachel's
current expression. Three gold bars...kerrrrrching...Clare had
hit the jackpot.
The blood drained from Rachel's face. Distractedly she
rubbed her nose. It was a timely affectation. Finally she broke
her own silence. Her tone had changed and now there was a
thinly disguised element of fear in her voice. Yet, true to her
character, she started on the offensive. This time Clare was
ready. Her armoury fully stocked, her weapons loaded.
'You can't just make allegations like this.'
'And why not, exactly? How the hell you have the nerve to
accuse Lizzie of double standards I have no idea. Delusions
of defamation? I suggest you drop all your plans to go to the
papers if you want to keep your golden reputation in the industry.
I don't care if everybody in this building is high as a
kite most of the time; you're the only one running a campaign
telling everyone to live their lives without regret, to say no to
drugs, encouraging clean living--'
Rachel interrupted.
'Who told you?'
'Like I'm just going to tell you! Look, I might not be an ex
loff

pert at all this double-crossing stuff, but no one reveals their
sources...'
'You're blackmailing me.'
'I'd rather see it as more of a bargain that needs to be struck.
If you promise to leave Lizzie to her career then I'll leave you
to yours. Simple as that.'
'But it's completely different. Lizzie had an affair with my
husband. Our marriage may never be the same again.'
'Don't kid yourself. If it hadn't been Lizzie it would probably
have been someone else.'
'But, Clare, you of all people know what I'm going through.
We've both suffered because of our partners' infidelity.'
'Don't try and pull sisterhood rank on me. You're no victim,
Rachel, except perhaps of your desire to climb the corporate
ladder two rungs at a time. Leaking your story would
make me feel a whole lot better about you pulling Lizzie's life
apart. Revenge might not be politically correct these days, but
I have to say I'm finding the prospect of the eye for an eye philosophy
quite satisfying, not to mention effective...'
Rachel was now slumped in her chair, chewing anxiously
on a cuticle. Clare, conversely, was suddenly on a roll.
'At least now you know how Lizzie must be feeling. Everything
you've worked so hard for hanging in the balance. How
dare you be so sanctimonious about what's right and what's
wrong? Sorry, angel. Your halo seems to have slipped.'
Clare was surprised at how easy she was finding this. There
must have been some gangster in her genealogy somewhere
back along the line--although disappointingly she didn't seem
to be able to crack her knuckles. She decided to quit while she
was so obviously ahead. Even in defeat, Rachel was quite
scary. Besides, she wasn't sure what to do next. It wasn't as if
she'd rehearsed an ending.
'I'd better get going. I won't be telling Lizzie about any of
this, so you're going to have to contact her yourself--and I'd
suggest sooner rather than later. I assume that your deadline
no longer applies?'
Rachel kicked her desk as Clare swept out of her office. She
couldn't even be gracious in defeat.
Clare resisted the urge to break into a skip as she hit the
pavement outside. She'd sat through a lot of gangland films in
her time and she'd never ever seen a gangster skip. They didn't
even smile. She concentrated on looking mean and moody as
she walked down the stairs to the tube station.
chapter

The weekend hadn't been a success. Matt had been out for
most of Saturday, and he'd just sat and stared at the television
yesterday. Still, at least he was at home with her--which was
something. He probably just needed time, but she was already
getting bored of waiting for him to bounce back. And to think
she'd even turned down brunch with Will in Soho. Maybe if
she'd met him and then pottered round Covent Garden in the
afternoon, instead of spending it avoiding the ironing basket,
football on the television and her monosyllabic husband, she
would've been feeling a little less highly strung today. Marvellous.
Just another Manic fucking Monday. Without the fucking,
of course.

Clare fetched Lizzie early. She'd only been in Hampstead for five days, but--taking their last phone call as a yardstick---
any longer might have done her more harm than good. And besides,
Clare couldn't wait to have her back. Her new-found
double life as a private investigator had made both her step and
her mood more buoyant than they had been in years. 'Normal'
behaviour was going to be tough. Clare had never been very
good at secrets or surprises. Furthermore, she'd have to react
convincingly if and when the news broke. It was a challenge
that she hoped she could live up to.
Lizzie was glad to be back. Once you hit your thirties there
is only so much mothering you can endure before you need a
serious dose of own space. The maternal home might be over
twice the size of their flat, but it had seemed impossible to find
even a cubic foot of her own on any of the three floors. She'd
felt like a rare and unpredictable specimen under observation. Daughterinastateus.
Even the phone hadn't provided life-support. Her mother
had scrutinised every call, incoming and outgoing. If Lizzie
wanted a cup of tea she wanted to know why; if she didn't want
one she wanted to know why not. She might still be a little unsure
of what to do next, but if she wasn't allowed to make some
of her everyday decisions without justification her sanity was
in jeopardy. She knew her mum only meant well, and she'd bitten
her tongue more often than it had managed to escape, but
if she'd stayed any longer the charge of adultery was in danger
of paling into insignificance alongside matricide.
Besides, Lizzie still had over two weeks to go till the end
of the month, and if she didn't get Susan a column by the end
of tomorrow or turn up at City FM on Thursday evening she
might manage to end her career all by herself. She knew she
was sounding a little melodramatic. But that was the way she
was feeling--and, she felt, with good reason.
Clare had spring-cleaned. 56 Oxford Road was bursting
with cut flowers and smelt gorgeous. As Clare whipped up a
storm in the kitchen Lizzie went to confront her inbox. She felt
sure that a quick peek before dinner might halt the dread that
was starting to envelop her. As the smells of Clare's culinary
endeavours wafted down the stairs Lizzie realised how glad she
was to have her back. While she couldn't have hacked ten
more minutes at her mother's, she didn't want to be all alone
any more. She was just logging on when Clare summoned her
for supper.
Clare was fidgeting. Since Friday night she'd been saddled
with a surfeit of energy, and if Lizzie hadn't been quite so pre
262
Jane Sigaloff






1
occupied with trying to organise the rest of her life then Clare
was sure that she'd have noticed that her once serene flatmate
looked like a break-dancer in a disco being forced to go cold
turkey. She wondered when Rachel would be in touch. She still
couldn't quite believe what had happened.
'This is delicious, Clare. Thanks.'
'Pleasure.' Clare clutched the seat of her chair with both
hands to stop herself jiggling around. She'd already inhaled her
portion. At least with her mouth full she hadn't been tempted
to say anything.
'Listen, thanks for everything. You were right to send me to
Mum's. And thanks for coming to get me this afternoon. I can't
tell you how good it feels to have you home.'
Clare had never been very good at taking compliments. It
wasn't that she didn't want or need them; she just didn't know
what to do with them when they arrived and invariably ended
up deflecting them rather awkwardly. She changed the subject.
'So, have you got a long night ahead of you?'
Lizzie had her mouth full.
'Mhmm.' There was a momentary pause while she chewed
and swallowed. 'I need to get a column in by noon tomorrow.
I jotted some stuff down at Mum's, but I need to fine-tune it
and add a bit more. I thought I might take it in myself and see
if I can arrange a time with Bridget to have lunch with Susan.
I'd rather talk to her about things face to face and not in her
glass-fronted office if I can avoid it.'
'Have you decided what you're going to say?'
'Pretty much. I think the truth would be a good place to start.
Susan's always been good to me, and I think I owe it to her to
be straight. God knows how she'll react. I'm clutching on to
the admittedly rather vain hope that she might think it's funny...
Still, I'd rather get in there now in case Rachel flips out again.
I'd rather she heard my version first.'
Clare was panicking slightly. What was the point of everything
she'd done if Lizzie was going to go and talk to Susan
before Rachel had withdrawn her ultimatum? But practically
what could she do about it? Lizzie was hardly going to be
ff

Name & Address Withheld

263



thrilled to think that Clare had been snooping round her
inbox, delivering threats behind her back. She knew that if
their positions were reversed she'd be livid. What if Rachel
told Lizzie what Clare had done? Her good mood was starting
to recede.
'I wouldn't rush anything, Liz. You've still got a bit of time.'
'I know, but I just can't leave it all till the last minute. As
hard as it is, I got myself into this mess and it's up to me to get
myself out of it. And if I don't sort it out soon I'll only spend
every other moment hypothesising about every possible eventuality.
You know what I'm like.'
Lizzie sounded calmer than she felt. But she knew she was
right. Fed and watered, she returned to her study and, slightly
subdued, started sifting through her e-mails. There were a few
from readers, and a surprising number of get well messages
from people at work, but her moment of belonging was shortlived.
Lizzie's improving mood dissipated abruptly when she
discovered a new e-mail from rachel.b@CDH.co.uk sent yesterday.
For
a few moments she just stared at the information on her
screen. The hairs on the back of her neck were now standing
to attention. There was nothing to help Lizzie ascertain what
the content was likely to be. The subject had been left blank.
What if Rachel had sent her a lethal virus to wipe her hard
drive? Paranoid? Well, maybe just a little. To open or not to
open? That was the question.
'Clare!'
It was an instinctive cry for help, and not a particularly loud
one. Lizzie waited a few minutes and shouted this time. Nothing.
Either Rachel had sent a virus that had got to Clare first
or, more rationally, Clare was washing up with the radio on and
couldn't hear her. Anyway, what could Clare do? At the age of
thirty-two Lizzie had forfeited the right to be rescued. Right.
Dread coursing through her veins, she took a deep breath,
closed her eyes and double-clicked.
She opened one eye and then the other before reading the
message as fast as she could--and then reading it again, syllable
by syllable.

Lizzie
Having had the weekend to cool down, I have decided
not to go to the papers if you promise to stay
away from Matthew. Despite your recent behaviour, I
do believe that you have a gift with people. However,
should I discover that you have contacted my husband
I will not hesitate in systematically destroying
everything you have worked for.
Yours, Rachel Baker

A subsistence lifestyle in South America was on hold. A veritable
U-turn. Lizzie was instantly circumspect. Perhaps this
was a trap--some sort of twist in Rachel's smear campaign?
Lizzie must have missed something. Compassion and forgiveness
were not traits she associated with any spurned wife,
and certainly not with Rachel Baker. Even this apparent gesture
of goodwill left Rachel holding all the cards. What if
Lizzie ran into Matt at work? Or he contacted her?

Lizzie called Clare again...and again...and again. Eventually
she came. Running. Breathless.
'What is it? Are you OK?'
'Look at this.'
'Look at this? Look at this ? God, Liz, at the very least I was
expecting you to have been impaled on your letter-opener.
Jesus. Don't do that again. What's wrong with getting off your
arse and coming to find me?'
'Sorry...' Lizzie pointed at her monitor. 'I just had to show
you this, and I didn't want to take my eyes off the screen just
in case something happened and it wasn't here any more. I
didn't want you to think I was hallucinating or anything.'
Clare read the e-mail from Rachel while Lizzie looked on
anxiously. And as she skimmed over the text for a second time
she had to concede that actually Rachel had been quite clever.
Clare could see why a nice-as-pie note would've been out of
place. Lizzie was even suspicious of this acerbic one.
'Good news, Liz. Sounds like she's had a change of heart.'
Clare did her best to mix surprise with rationale.
'She's definitely up to something. Something that I'm obviously
too dense to work out by myself.'
'It does seem a little odd, I agree. But it's hardly a chatty
little let's-be-friends note, is it?' Clare stopped herself. She was
on the verge of giving something away. She shrugged her
shoulders. 'Look, Liz, I haven't got a clue what goes on in her
head, but if I were you I'd just go with it. It's good news. At
least you don't have to look for a new job.'
'But she's toying with me. What if I run into Matt at work
and she finds out? Does that count? I can't control what he
does, and I don't want to live my life on a knife-edge. I think
I'd honestly rather work in a bar and not feel threatened.'
Clare loved Lizzie, but right now she could happily have
slapped her. Talk about ungrateful. Here it was, a second
chance on a plate, and she was talking about pulling pints for
a living. 'Don't be stupid, Liz. You love your job and...you're
bloody good at it. If I were you I wouldn't ask too many questions.'
'Well,
that's where we differ, then. I've done enough treading
on eggshells over the last few months to last me a lifetime.
I don't want to be stitched up a few months down the line
when I least expect it because she's still pulling the strings.
I'd better give her a call. At least if I talk to her I can gauge
how she sounds. I mean, anyone could have written this from
her desk.'
'Anyone? Don't be so bloody ridiculous. I doubt she's told
too many people. Honestly, do you have a conspiracy theory
for everything?'
'Apparently so.'
'You're mad. Who else could have written that message?
Who else knows anything about your ultimatum?'
Lizzie had to agree that Clare was making sense. As usual.
It made less sense at 1:30 a.m. when Lizzie finished her column.
And less sense still at four-fifteen, when Lizzie was still
trying to find a comfortable enough position to go to sleep in.
By nine-thirty Lizzie was pacing up and down the sitting room
with the phone in her hand. By nine-forty Clare had talked her
out of calling. At ten-seventeen Clare had left the house and
the line was ringing.
'Good morning--CDH. How can I help you?'
'Rachel Baker, please.'
'Just one moment, please. Who should I say is calling?'
'Lizzie Ford.'
'Thank you.'
'Hello...'
Lizzie was fired up and didn't want to waste a moment.
'Hello, Rachel, it's Lizzie. Listen--'

'...this is Rachel Baker's phone. I'm sorry I can't take your
call at the moment. I'm either on the other line or away from
my desk. If you leave your name and number after the tone I'll
get back to you as soon as I can. Alternatively dial 455 now,
to speak to Kitty my secretary. Thank you.' Beeeeeep.
Shit. Voicemail. Should she leave a message? So far she
hadn't said a word. Her overriding urge was to hang up, but
she forced herself to go through with it. Eventually Lizzie
found a voice. It wasn't her normal one, but it would just have
to make do for now.
'Rachel. It's Lizzie Ford on Wednesday morning. I'll try you
later. Thanks.'
Thanks? Thanks? For what, exactly? For being married to
a man that Lizzie had loved so much it hurt? For threatening
to end her career and causing her to have a five-day stomach
upset? For the outbreak of acne that had recently graced her
shoulders...in her thirties? Yes, 'thanks' was patently what it
was all about, and pretty much the opposite of what she'd
really wanted to say.
Now what? Lizzie hung around for about an hour before
calling back. This time the 'hello' was really Rachel's voice.
'Rachel, it's Lizzie.' Time to be brave. She stood up straight.
'Have you got a minute for a quick word?'
'Sure. Hang on a second....'
Lizzie heard her get up and the click of a door. She was baffled.
Rachel's tone was--well, it wasn't exactly friendly, but
it was certainly civil.
'Did you get my e-mail?'
267


'Yes. Thanks. It's why I'm calling, actually.'
Nothing from Rachel.
lizzie, continued. 'What are you up to?'
'What do you mean?' Rachel said it in as charitable a spirit
as she could muster.
'It just seems a bit of U-turn, I suppose. How do I know you
won't change your mind again? And probably when I least expect
it.'
'Look--' Far too snappy. Rachel took a deep breath and
started again, a little more softly. She just couldn't help it.
Being all there-there didn't come naturally to her. 'I've done
a lot of thinking. I'm not saying that you weren't at fault, but
I suppose that, while I hate to admit it, if things had been great
between us Matthew wouldn't have been wandering the streets
looking for someone else to sleep with...'
God, Rachel had a way with words. Wandering the streets. Thanks to her, Lizzie currently felt worth all of fifty pence. So
much for love and romance, thunderbolts and mutual attraction.
Lizzie thought back to her time with Matt to remind herself
that she wasn't actually an easy lay for unhappy men.
Rachel, on the other hand, was still going strong.
'In a way I suppose I know that I should be relieved that he
picked you to shag...'
Shag. Never a nice verb.
'...rather than some brainless bimbo who wouldn't have
sent him home again.'
Was Rachel being nice or not? Overall, Lizzie suspected that
she was, and she hadn't mentioned tabloid newspapers once-- which was a definite turn-up for the books. Plus, there was almost
a compliment in there. At least she didn't perceive Lizzie
as a brainless bimbo, which had to count for something.
'Listen. You're good at your job. Everyone makes mistakes,
and I suppose I thought that maybe you deserved another
chance.' Rachel was doing everything she could to sound as if
she meant it. She was still irritated that she wasn't going to be
able to finish Lizzie off, but thanks to her interfering flatmate
the stakes were just too high.
'Thanks.' Lizzie was doing it again. Rachel was insulting
268

Jane Sigaloff

her and she was saying thank you. Years of minding her p's
and q's at school had taken their toll. She'd been brainwashed
by the manners police.
'Just stay away from Matt. I really think we have a chance
at making things work together.'
'Of course.' The words stuck in Lizzie's throat. She knew
it was the least that she could and should do. And, unsurprisingly,
she'd lost all interest in having recreational sex. Especially
when it involved shagging men who were wandering the
streets.
'Look, I've got to go'
'Right.'
'Bye.'
'Bye.' Civil, but strained. Lizzie was confused. Rachel's
new approach was disconcerting to say the least.
The flat was quiet. As Lizzie returned the phone to its
charger, the clock on the video saw fit to remind her that in the
real world it was 11:45 and counting.
Hot and sweaty, she delivered her column to Susan's office
with only seconds to spare, before stopping at Bridget's desk
to book herself in for a lunch with her editor. Next stop, City
FM. It was a tactical move. Time to re-kindle her enthusiasm
with the team--just in case they were starting to think that she
was on the verge of self-important celebrity disdain for the production
process. How better to win them over than taking them
out for a coffee-and-cake-fuelled production meeting the day
before their next show? If work was all she had for now, Lizzie
was going to make damn sure she enjoyed it.
chapter

Cjreat show tonight.'
'Thanks. You were right. I couldn't have just given it all up
overnight.'
'I still don't know how you do it. I couldn't think of anything
remotely positive to say to most of the people that ring
in...but I guess that's why I run a restaurant and not a helpline.
I think I'd want to give most of them a slap and tell them to
stop whining about everything. No one said life was a fucking
fairytale.'
Lizzie helped herself to a bit more food while Clare finished
her familiar rant. On a post-show high, and full to the brim with
euphoria but nothing of any calorific value, she'd made the
mistake of ordering a takeaway and was currently working her
way through a second plateful. Clare had managed to resist the
first round, but now had a large slab of peshwari naan in her
hand which was making Lizzie feel a lot better about her own
gluttony. With Clare keeping her company the whole feeding
frenzy seemed a little bit less like a binge.
'I'm starting to feel like myself again.'
270Jane Sigaloff

'Well, you've certainly got your appetite back... Agony
aunts are supposed to be rotund and motherly, aren't they?"
'Not in their early thirties...'
Clare got an impressively clear view of half-chewed lamb
pasanda and sag aloo as Lizzie forgot her manners and combined
talking with shovelling another forkful of colourful food
into her mouth. She was mid-feeding frenzy and not going to
let a little thing like aesthetics get in her way.
'Well, for some totally unfair and inexplicable metabolic
reason you seem to get away with eating this late at night. I
only have to look at a biscuit after 10:00 p.m. and I might as
well apply it directly to my abdominal area.'
'I do prefer it when you're here to look after me when I get
home. I can't believe it's only just over a week since you
packed me off to Mum's; it feels like ages since Rachel was
standing here reading me her version of the Riot Act...'
Clare nodded. It had been quite a week. She decided to ignore
Lizzie's lack of table--well, sofa--manners, and the
graphic washing machine window display of mastication, and
began leafing through one of last Sunday's newspaper supplements
which had taken up residence on the sofa. She didn't
look up when Lizzie started speaking. From the sound of it,
the coast wasn't quite clear yet.
'It's funny, though. While the whole showdown scenario
was horrific, now that Rachel knows I feel like a huge weight
has been lifted. For the first time this year I'm no longer part
of some intricate web of deceit--not that I knew what I was
getting myself into at the start. One minute I was dating Matt
and the next minute, boom, in trouble up to my earlobes and
no failsafe escape route.'
Lizzie poured more red wine into Clare's empty glass and
to her delight could see that her friend was succumbing rapidly
to the powers of Chilean Merlot. She deserved it. Clare
needed to relax. The washing was done, the ironing basket was
empty, and today there were more beautiful flowers on the
kitchen table. She'd been making a huge effort and it hadn't
gone unnoticed.
Lizzie had a confession to make. In light of the last few

.
I
months of her life she had decided to live a secret-free existence--as
far as Clare was concerned, at any rate. 'I spoke to
Rachel yesterday.'
Everything stopped. Clare's mouthful stuck in her throat and
she gulped at her wine. Her stomach knotted in anticipation.
'Did you call her?'
Lizzie nodded. 'Yup.'
Clare shook her head. She hadn't meant to but the Merlot
must have loosened the joints in her neck.
'I know--I know you told me not to, but I had to after that
e-mail. It didn't really make sense to me. It still doesn't.'
'What did she say?'
Clare was genuinely interested. Lizzie didn't seem to be
cross with her, so Rachel had obviously been discreet. Clare
focused on every word that Lizzie said in the hope that she
would remember it later for further analysis. She hated the effect
alcohol had on her memory when she was trying to concentrate.
'Oh,
something about her accepting a minuscule amount of
responsibility for driving Matt into someone else's arms, hence
my reprieve. The trouble is I'm not sure that I trust her. I mean,
what if she changes her mind again?'
'Maybe she's just calmed down a bit?' Clare started to relax
again. She knew it wasn't in Rachel's interest to mention her
to Lizzie, but it had been a worry.
'Maybe...'
Lizzie didn't sound convinced.
'Anyway, I've arranged to see Susan. She owes me a lunch
and my contract's nearly up. The more I think about it, the
more I think I might just hand in my notice. Even if Rachel's
feeling charitable at the moment, the scandal's bound to catch
up with me sooner or later, and to be honest I don't think I'm
the right sort of person to deal with that sort of notoriety. I'm
not interested in being a tabloid headline, or a Trivial Pursuit
answer of the future. Maybe this is a chance for me to try something
new?'
Lizzie was trying to sound as optimistic as she could. Every
time she said it to herself it sounded like a better idea. Far more
272
Jane Sigaloff


attractive than living on a knife-edge. She wanted to try and
retain some element of control.
Clare was shocked. Not least because it actually sounded as
if Lizzie had really thought about this. 'Don't do anything
rash, Liz. Look at how much has changed over the last week.
Now the ultimatum has been lifted there's no hurry.'
'I had nothing else to think about when I was at home. I
could probably move into another area of writing or broadcasting...I
don't want to leave the industry altogether...but at
the moment part of this second chance thing is linked to me
never seeing Matt again. Obviously in the light of everything
that's happened I'm not about to give him a call.' She had been
so close in the last couple of days. So close. 'But what if he
gets in touch with me? Just say...'
Clare was horrified. Lizzie could tell. But at least she was
being honest now, and not just saying what she knew Clare
wanted to hear.
'I'm just saying, what if...? You know...hypothetically
speaking.'
'What? Change your career in case Matt deigns to give you
a call some time?' Clare snapped. She knew she shouldn't but
she couldn't help it.
'Thanks. I knew I could count on your support...'
Clare had promised herself that she'd try and be more understanding,
yet here she was once again dismissing Lizzie's
point of view out of hand.
'I know you think I'm being ridiculous, but humour me.
What if...? Well, hypothetically just say--I know it probably
won't happen...but if it did...' Lizzie was sputtering as she tried
to find a way to keep Clare on side. She took a deep breath and
just went for it. 'OK. Just say that he leaves Rachel of his own
accord and then looks me up when I've got my life just about
back on an even keel, and this whole scandal is still just waiting
to be wheeled out and ruin everything. Think how much
more bitter she'd be then, if he'd actually left her for me.'
'Hello...? Hello...?' Clare was pretending to knock on
Lizzie's forehead. 'Hello? Is that Lizzie Ford? Where are your
pink slippers? You're sounding a bit like the late Barbara Cart
land... Right, no more schmaltzy romantic comedies for you.
From now on you watch the Alien movies, Westerns and that's
it. Honestly. What if he leaves Rachel? He's hardly been round
here checking you're OK so far... And, conniving as she is, we
can assume that she hasn't tied him up and left him for dead
in a cellar somewhere. Where is he? With her. Where he should
be.'
Clare's good resolutions deserted her for pastures new. She
couldn't believe how sentimental lizzie, was being, after everything
he'd put her through.
If she was totally honest, Lizzie was disappointed and surprised
that she hadn't heard from Matt since the Kensington
showdown. If he really did care about her as much as he'd said
he did, it didn't seem to make sense. Lizzie didn't like to admit
that his failure to get in touch might in any way be related to
her own frankly dishonest behaviour. To the fact that on that
same evening that Rachel's world had been upended he'd discovered
that Lizzie had been corresponding with his wife for
some time. The fact that in some ways he'd probably left feeling
as betrayed and confused as Rachel had. Lizzie wished
she'd managed to find a moment to explain everything to him.
But if he thought back to the times they'd had together as
often as she did, surely he'd know that what they'd had was
very special.
To Lizzie's dismay it looked as if Clare was revving up for
more.
'Matt's a no-win situation. Think back over the last couple
of months. On a scale of one to ten, where one is miserable
and ten is ecstatic, how would you rate them? Honestly-- overall--not including any moments when you were in bed together.'
She
was getting the message. Lizzie hesitated for a moment
as she recalled the extent of the low moments.
'The worst time in your adult life?'
'Definitely.'
'I rest my case. Put him behind you.'
lizzie nodded.
'I know you don't believe me; I can see it in your eyes...'
274Jane Sigaloff

Lizzie blushed. As far as her emotions went, a mistress of
disguise she was not.
'Believe it or not, I only want the best for you--but if you
must persist with the whole happily-ever-after, bratpack ending
thing please do yourself a favour and find someone who
doesn't have a wife. Even if you leave your job now and take
up waitressing do you really think Rachel would forget to go
to the papers if you started sleeping with Matt again? Matt, incidentally,
being the man who you haven't heard from in
weeks... And besides, can't you see? If you start waiting tables
for a living then she's won...'
Lizzie seemed to have temporarily mislaid her in-built self
preservation gene. Clare couldn't see a solution where they
could live happily ever after and, from an objective standpoint,
she couldn't help believing that, if it came to a choice,
Lizzie's career was far more important than a few months or
even a few more years with Matt. If that made her hard and insensitive--well,
maybe she was.
'And maybe there's more to Rachel's U-turn than meets the
eye.' As soon as she heard the words spill out of her mouth
Clare regretted it. Lizzie was terrier-like in her inability to let
things go, and from the glint in her best friend's eye she knew
she was about to wish she hadn't had that last glass of wine.
Lizzie was on her case at once.
'Clare Williamson. Spit it out.'
'I just said maybe... Maybe she and Matt are getting on so
well now that she doesn't mind if you keep your job or not.'

Yeah, right.'
Clare had to admit it was a fairly far-fetched theory, but it
was the only one that had sprung to mind in the heat of the moment.
She decided to feign total ignorance. 'How would I
know anything?'
'God knows. But you can't just sit there and go all Jessica
Fletcher on me and expect me to buy it. When do you ever say
"more to it than meets the eye"?'
'I've just started.'
'Clare...'
That was it. One unit of alcohol too many coupled with a
general level of pride in what she had achieved on Lizzie's behalf
and it all came flooding out.
Lizzie just sat there, her mouth not quite open and not quite
closed, as she tried to digest the latest chapter in her very own
love triangle.
'But, listen, I'm only telling you all this so you don't make
a career decision that you come to regret.'
Clare still wasn't quite sure how her confession had come
about and was deep in self-justification mode. Lizzie was
oblivious to her protracted flannelling. Mentally she was miles
away. Her Putney-based persona remained mute for a moment.
When she did regain the power of speech her sentences
were short and sporadic.
'Cocaine. I don't believe it. No wonder Matt thought she
was moody.'
'Hey, Liz. This mustn't become public knowledge. I struck
a deal, remember...'
Lizzie wasn't really listening. All this discussion of Rachel's
darker side had led her subconscious to progress naturally to
her husband. She wondered if Matt knew. There was absolutely
no way she could tell him, but maybe someone else could. But
who? Or maybe Clare really was right. Maybe it was time to
move on.
Clare was now panicking fully at her indiscretion. 'You
can't tell anyone. Do you understand?'
'Yup.'
'I mean it, Liz. I know you. Look at me. N-o-b-o-d-y.'
'But what if Matt doesn't know?'
'You see. I know you. You mustn't tell a soul. No one. Personne.
Nadie. Niemant. Not even in confidence. Anyway, for
all you know they freebase together.'
'Thanks for that.'
'Well, you don't know that they don't.'
Lizzie ignored Clare. She didn't want to think of Matt and
Rachel flinging themselves at each other or swinging from the
ceiling rose during ardent coke-fuelled nights of passion.
'Hardly Little Miss Squeaky Clean, is she? And to think she
276
Jane Sigaloff


had the balls to try and lecture me on ethics and moral codes.
IBWhat a bloody cheek.'
'Listen, Liz, I don't think you've earned the right to gloat.
You were sleeping with her husband while you were giving her
advice on how to save her marriage, remember?'
'Mmm.'
It was true. But gloating was much more fun.
'Look, I only did what I had to. I didn't want you to lose
everything because of one mistake, but don't even think for a
minute that you're off the hook as far as sleeping with a man
that you knew was married goes.'
'I know. I know...'
Lizzie's mind was still struggling to come to terms with all
the information. As she recapped the latest developments, the
significance of what Clare had done while she'd been loafing
about, picking her feet and watching Countdown under house
arrest in Hampstead, hit her.
'Well, I suppose I should be thanking you. Even if you were
interfering behind my back.' Lizzie beamed at Clare to demonstrate
that she was just joking on this occasion. She didn't want
to run the risk of any misunderstandings. 'There I was feeling
sorry for myself, and you were masterminding my future...
What can I say?'
Lizzie was visibly moved. All the effort made her feel very
special. Not something she'd felt for quite some time.
Clare smiled and drained her glass to wash down the newly
formed lump in her throat. She was enjoying the appreciation
and relishing the feel-good moment of having done a good
deed. On reflection, and finally out of the proverbial woods,
it had been worth every angst-filled moment. Despite the panic
of the last few minutes, it looked as if everything might just
work out after all.
'Would Miss Marple care for some more wine?' Lizzie
smiled at Clare as she filled her glass and emptied the bottle.
f»

chapter

Getting the bus had seemed such a great idea at the time. A
chance to take in the bit of London that she was usually underground
for--the romantic's alternative to the claustrophobic,
energy-sapping hot filth of the tube. But now the bus was
practically stationary on Oxford Street, and time marched on
irreverently as Lizzie stared powerlessly from the top deck.
People strode past and disappeared into distant crowds while
the double-decker crept along a paving stone at a time. She was
trapped.
There was always the get-off-and-run-the-last-half-mile option,
but her impractical shoes coupled with a generally nonexistent
level of fitness would guarantee a totally dishevelled
arrival--if indeed she made it at all. Plus, from past experience,
she knew that the second her foot hit the pavement the bus
would accelerate into the distance, coating her with a black
puff of pure carbon monoxide from its petticoat of dirt. So she
sat tight and watched the second hand on her watch complete
another circuit of the dial. Just on the off-chance that she might
have persuaded herself that perhaps her watch had gained ten
minutes since she'd left Putney, the Selfridges clock, just to her
275Jane Sigaloff

left and at top deck eye-level, struck one. She was now officially
late.
Perhaps getting the tube from Bond Street to Green Park
would be quicker? Or hailing a cab? She doubted it. Rupert
Street wasn't far. Maybe a brisk fifteen-minute walk would be
the best option. Fifteen minutes late was better than a coronary
and a no-show. Anyway, fifteen minutes late was the norm for
some people. She was just going to have to learn to go with
the flow a little bit more. Susan was never on time anyway.
Despite her attempts at rationale, Lizzie could feel her pulse
increasing. She gathered her things together and decided to
break for the pavement.
Just as she got to her feet the bus lurched forward as it finally
but assertively ground through the lower gears, and, having
managed to regain her composure with the help of a
fortuitously placed handrail, Lizzie opted to see how far they
got before she made a decision.
As they finally rumbled into Regent Street she could almost
see the finish line. She bent her knees slightly to help with the
whole stop-start balance thing and willed the bus to speed up
just a little bit for the final leg of her journey.
Against all the odds, Lizzie's life had returned to a surprisingly
high level of normality, and she'd thrown herself at her
work with the enthusiasm and energy known only to those who
have been given a reprieve. She added adultery to her list of
specialist subjects, and as she read the contents of her postbag
slowly came to realise that maybe she'd elevated Matt to
pedestal level without him really having earned it. However
great they had been together, it had always been a lie.
At the back of her mind she was still worried that Rachel
had the upper hand. As far as Lizzie could see there was nothing
to stop her leaking her story and twisting the truth to a few
hack journalists at a later date, once her campaign was over.
Lizzie couldn't help feeling that maybe it was time to move
into a different sphere of writing or broadcasting altogether,
so she'd decided to seek advice from the woman who had
been largely responsible for her present niche--Susan
Sharpies. She was the one who'd seen her potential as a new
breed of agony aunt and Lizzie respected her vision. Plus,
Lizzie hoped, she wasn't the sort of woman that you could
shock easily. Bus permitting, she was on her way to Cafe Fish
to confess all.
Lizzie finally gave up on London transport outside Hamleys
and half-walked, half-jogged the final leg, arriving fashionably
late at 1:17 p.m. Sophistication had deserted her. She might
have looked quite smart when she'd left the house, all blow
dried and perfumed, but now her look was more distressed.
Well, just stressed. Her cheeks had taken on the deep crimson
hue that always characterised any exercise that Lizzie endured
for more than a minute, and were now a beautiful contrast to
the pale blue of her cardigan. And while the cashmere was
doing wonders to soften her appearance it was failing miserably
in its promise to be cool in summer.
Either way, Lizzie wished that she'd opted to wear a little
top underneath. She didn't think the crowd at the restaurant
were ready for her slightly sweaty M&S bra lunchtime look.
She flapped her arms a couple of times in an attempt to let convection
take place and assist her under-arm protection--currently
working on overtime and about to take issue with its
union about having to work through its lunch-hour--before
firmly pulling the push door while the welcome committee of
waiters looked on in amusement.
If you'd looked closely, you would have observed her already
rosy cheeks growing a little redder.
She puffed her name at the maitre d'.
'Ford, Lizzie. Table for two. Probably booked in the name
of Sharpies.'
He ran his perfectly manicured finger up and down the
reservations list. Lizzie had seen their booking long before he
found it, but knew better than to point it out to him. Besides,
this was valuable getting-her-breath-back time. As he finally
found her name Lizzie felt she had to apologise.
'Sorry I'm a bit late.'
He ignored her, and in so doing instilled the confidence of
a twelve-year-old in his slightly flustered client, before turning
on his well-polished heel and leading Lizzie to a booth
250
Jane Sigaloff


where Susan was waiting, killing time--and a few brain
cells--with a mobile phone call. It was the first time that Susan
had beaten Lizzie to a venue, ever.
Susan, characteristically unfazed by anything, said her
goodbyes and stood to greet Lizzie. After an exchange of
mwah-mwah air kisses Lizzie was pleased to be sitting down.
Her shins were now smarting from the jog in her slight heels-- which, Lizzie had decided before leaving home, were more appropriate
for their meeting than boots or trainers.
'Lizzie. Darling. Are you OK? You look very, um, flushed.'
Susan turned to the waiter now hovering behind Lizzie to take
the jacket that she'd just bundled up on the seat next to her and
addressed him with some urgency. 'A bottle of still mineral
water, please. Two glasses. Ice and lemon.' Her tone was a verbal
click of her fingers and as she ordered she nodded towards
Lizzie to indicate the priority treatment she felt they deserved.
Lizzie unrolled her jacket and shook it out apologetically as
she handed it to him. His duties complete, he vanished at once
in search of water.
'I'm fine. I was just running a bit late and thought I'd jog
the last few metres.'
Susan looked at her in disbelief. Jogging was something that
she only did in the presence of her personal trainer, and certainly
not in kitten heels. 'Well, let's get the ordering out of
the way and then we can get down to gossip.'
Lizzie wasn't going to let her down on that front; she was
sure of it.
They studied the menu, their silence only punctuated by the
occasional self-absorbed mutter as they sounded out their options
and tried to decide whether their palates would prefer buttered
skate or seared scallops. They had successfully whittled
the menu down to a couple of dishes, when a tall, dark French
waiter joined them brandishing a little blackboard. His role:
to throw their almost-made choices into disarray.
'Good alfternoon, ladies. May I draw your attention to zer
specials of tooday?'
Without looking at each other, Lizzie and Susan both sat up
281


a little straighter to give the monsieur their undivided attention.
'We
haf for you a deleecious deesh of wild sea bass. Gently
pan-fried with a delicate sawce of the mushroom and spinach,
served with a bake of potato, cheese and' shallot.'
Lizzie and Susan were both salivating, although from the
amount of hair flicking and direct eye contact going on opposite
Lizzie it appeared that Susan was as taken with the waiter
as she was at the prospect of sea bass. He must be almost half
her age.
'Or, if you fancy something cold...'
Did he look at Lizzie then, or was she just feeling self-conscious?
Thanks to the recently poured mineral water she had
actually stopped sweating now.
'...today we have a dressed lobster with a salad of mixed
herb leafes and a light limon dressing.'
'I think I'm just going to have to go for the wild sea bass.' Susan lingered just a little too long over the 'wild', and almost
created a small breeze in the Wl area with the rapid fluttering
of her eyelashes. Lizzie had to sip her water to prevent a snigger
escaping. Susan was shameless...and a thoroughly entertaining
lunch companion. Waiter aside, however, Lizzie had to
admit that it did sound good--even if she was sure there was
no such thing as tame sea bass and the 'wild' was probably pure
marketing.
'I'll have the same, please.'
'He was rather nice,' Susan whispered just a little too loudly
to be discreet. 'I love this place. Full of young red-blooded
Frenchmen. In my prime I was always a sucker for a bit of a
foreign accent...beats the Croydon twang hands-down every
time!'
Lizzie had never seen the attraction of surly Gallic men-- nor their Croydon counterparts--but laughed and nodded conspiratorially
with her editor, whom she imagined had once
been a bit of a man-eater. Luckily for the young waiter, it
seemed she had moved on to fish. Susan took the initiative.
'So how are you, Lizzie? We haven't had a proper chat in
ages...'
282Jane Sigaloff

By 'proper chat' she meant a good gossip. Lizzie could feel
a new wave of totally non-exercise-related heat sweeping
across the surface of her skin underneath her cardigan.
'Still happy at Out LoudT
'Oh, very. You know I love my job.'
'Well, you're very good at it, and the readers love you, so
we love you too.'
'Thanks. How's circulation?'
'Levelled off a bit in the last couple of months, but overall
still increasing. No mean feat when you look at the new titles
out there now.'
'That's good...' Lizzie wasn't really listening. She was actually
rehearsing her next sentence in her head. And there was
only a slight pause before she decided that the sooner she got
her hidden agenda off her chest, the sooner she could relax and
actually enjoy the complimentary croutons and fish pate'. She
took a sip of water and cleared her throat before continuing.
'Actually, Susan, I wanted to ask your advice about something.'
'Really?'
Susan leant forward, her chin practically resting
on Lizzie's side of the table with the anticipation of a potentially
juicy titbit. 'Personal or professional?'
'Professional...although it was my personal life that got me
into this mess in the first place.'
Susan remained motionless, determined not to miss a syllable.
'Well...'
Lizzie took a deep breath '...I wanted to talk to you
about my options. About the possibility of me moving away
from the agony aunting side of things and maybe doing something
a little less emotional--something a little less hands-on
with people.'
Susan leant back against the wall of the booth, her brow furrowed.
Concern and confusion tinged her usually radiant complexion.
'Why make the break?' Her tone was perplexed.
'People love you; you're a real natural. And why now, just
when you've got your broadcast career up and running? It
doesn't make any business sense. From what I hear, The Agony
and the Ecstasy is outstripping all its rivals.'
'I know. I know it all sounds strange. It's just that...
well...people might not love me quite so much if a certain bit
of gossip gets to them.'
'Tell Auntie Susan...I promise I'll be honest. I bet it's not
as bad as you think. It never is.'
Lizzie looked at her fork before making a potted confession
at break-neck speed, finishing with Rachel's ultimatum at the Blue launch. Tempting as it was to include Clare's revelation,
Lizzie knew better than to tell Susan. It would have been as
discreet as projecting the information onto the side of the
House of Commons. When she finally looked up, expecting disapproval from her editor at the very least, Susan was beaming
at her, apparently unruffled. If anything, she looked
amused.
'I wondered when you were going to tell me...'
Lizzie stared at her lunch companion. Rachel had promised
she wasn't going to say anything. She knew it had been too
good to be true. Unless, of course, Clare had been interfering
again. Secretly she was becoming a little bit annoyed at Clare's
repeated intervention on her behalf. She knew she was being
ungrateful, but she had to learn to deal with her own fuck-ups.
'When did she tell you?' Lizzie carefully left the 'she' nonspecific,
so she could work out for herself whether it was 'she'
Clare, or 'she' Rachel.
'You're not going to like this, but I overheard your little spat
at the Blue launch.'
'At the Blue launch...?' Lizzie's heart nearly stopped dead
mid-beat. 'You were at the... What? You weren't...? God...'
It took a couple of goes for Lizzie to regain her composure.
Susan waited patiently for Lizzie to put an intelligible question
together.
'What were you doing there?'
'I could ask you the same question.'
Lizzie could feel herself blushing again. Her capillaries
were working on overtime. 'Well...I...well...Robyn...she told
me to go. Apparently the editor...um...what was her name?
Oh, anyway, well, the editor...'
'Melissa Matthews?'
1

284

Jane Sigaloff


'Yes, that's it. Melissa Matthews...' Lizzie was concentrating
so hard that she failed to acknowledge the fact that Susan
seemed to know exactly who Melissa Matthews was '.. .was interested
in meeting me. As it happened I never got to meet her
anyway.'
Susan was smiling. 'It isn't the first time Melissa's wanted
something that I already had.'
Lizzie looked at her boss quizzically.
'Well, she thinks you're fantastic--perfect for Blue, just
what they need, etc., etc., and then, of course, there is the as
yet unavenged fact that I went and married the man she'd always
lusted after.'
'I didn't know you'd been married.' Lizzie had always seen
Susan as the archetypal vixen. Self-assured, hard to get, but
worth the wait. The woman men always looked back on and
reminisced about as the one that got away.
'Oh, it didn't last very long and I was quite young. I'm not
sure that I really loved him, you know. Everyone else did, but
once the thrill of the chase was over and we'd got back from
our honeymoon in the British Virgin Islands he was actually
quite dull--'
Lizzie interrupted her. 'I take it that you don't have to be a
British Virgin when you arrive there?'
Susan laughed. 'I'd never have been allowed off the plane!
I'd never thought about it like that before...'
Lizzie was full of misplaced admiration for Susan. She
wasn't exactly a guru of how to live your life--unless, of
course, you were aiming to live it as selfishly as possible. But
in terms of anecdotes and far-flung stories she was excellent
value. Guaranteed to have been there, done that, bought and
given away the T-shirt long before anyone else had even heard
of it.
'Anyway, where was I? Yes, so you see Melissa and I go
back a long way. She's heading up the team at Blue and invited
me along partly to thank me for all the tips I've given her over
the years and largely, I'm sure, to gloat a little and show off at
its launch. We've managed to flout convention and keep it
very much a friendly rivalry.'
285


'Did she ever get married?'
'Oh, yes, she got her man in the end...' Her eyes were shining.
'Shame he turned out to prefer men after all the effort she
put in. We should have known. He'd always had suspiciously
good taste in clothes--oh, and in women, of course...' Susan
couldn't stop a smile from spreading across her face.
Lizzie was amazed. Susan had been at the launch. And if
she and Melissa were friends then she probably knew that Melissa
had been talking to Robyn about contracts. But how on
earth had she overheard her and Rachel? And if she'd been listening in how many others had been close enough to the
Ladies' to be privy to the whole thing?
'No wonder you didn't want to meet that Rachel woman for
dinner. It was that same one who rang me a couple of weeks
earlier, wasn't it?'
Lizzie nodded. She wasn't coming out of this very well. Unless,
of course, her objective was to tell her boss as many lies
as possible--in which case she must be on the leader board for
Deceitful Employee of the Year.
'She sounded quite a character. Feisty. Who'd have thought
it? My very own Ask Lizzie a mistress.'
Lizzie looked devastated. Susan didn't even look cross.
'So where were you? Did you hear everything?' Lizzie just
had to know.
'I'm afraid so.' Susan at least had the decency to look sheepish
at this point. 'I hate to admit it. It's so uncouth, and dreadfully
seedy, but I was in the toilets the whole time. Behind a
locked door...in a stall... It would have been pretty difficult not
to listen. I would have left, but theTe didn't seem to be an appropriate
moment so I thought I'd be better off staying put.'
Lizzie's head slipped into her hands. At least Susan hadn't
decided to make a break for the basins. She wasn't sure she'd
have been able to cope with her presence if she'd known about
it.
'I'm surprised you didn't just post me my P45 the next
morning.'
'To be honest, I'm actually a little bit disappointed that you
haven't come to see me sooner about it all. I'm hardly going
to sack you because you fell in love with the wrong man. It's
not like I'm perfect, is it, darling?'
'But he was...sorry, I should say, he is...married to someone
who had written to me asking for advice.'
'But I bet he wasn't wearing a label saying "married man"
when you met him, was he? They never do. Bloody unfair, if
you ask me.'
Lizzie pulled herself into the upright position as she realised
Susan was on her side. 'So you're not cross, then?'
'Cross? What for?'
'Well, I could bring the magazine into disrepute if this gets
out.'
Susan laughed again. Lizzie wasn't sure how she felt about
the fact that she was providing her editor with such an entertaining
lunch break.
'I very much doubt it. Just think Marje Proops. She was a
mistress for years, and after the news broke everyone still valued
her advice. Plus, a few column inches in a few choice publications
might get us a few more readers. I employed you as
an agony aunt, not as a saint. You're human. Don't underestimate
how important that is to your readers. Some employees
have to go on courses to gain qualifications, just see your training
on this occasion as a little bit more hands-on!'
Lizzie couldn't help but feel that Susan was being a little
bit flippant about the whole thing. Fancy dismissing her affair
as vocational. The bottom line was that it wasn't funny. Well,
not that funny. Well, OK, quite funny if one of the people involved
wasn't you. But Lizzie seemed to have temporarily
misplaced her sense of humour. She was sure she'd had it
there earlier.
'But Rachel has threatened to end my career if I so much
as speak to Matt again...'
'Calm down, will you?' Susan shook her head disapprovingly.
'You really are very uptight about all of this, aren't you?
Maybe I'll get Bridget to give you a massage later on--she's
a fully qualified aromatherapist, you know--or maybe you
should try doing a bit of yoga...it's done wonders for my quality
of life. Pilates is another one. It's just amazing how the way
you breathe can change your posture and your outlook. It
really toned me up, you know. But if you want to see definition
that Ashtanga power yoga is what you need. It's the business.
Just look at Madonna.'
There wasn't a fad that Susan hadn't embraced like a long
lost relative.
'I'm fine.' Lizzie tried her best to act cool.
'Now, where was I? Ah yes...you being a mistress...'
Lizzie flinched inwardly. She still couldn't quite deal with
'mistress' being used as an adjective to describe her. It made
her sound so calculating. As if she'd deliberately gone out
there in search of a married man, determined to ride roughshod
over some unsuspecting little wife, her actions dictated by her
raw and potent sexual magnetism. The stereotype was all-prevailing
and totally detached from the reality of what had happened.
'Well--
1) He didn't tell you he was married when you first
met him. 2) You're not with him any more. You tried to do the
right thing when plenty of people would have been less considerate
and much more selfish. 3) You genuinely fell for him.
It's not like you deliberately set out to sabotage her marriage.
Your readers--and the same will apply to your listeners, I'm
sure--would rather take advice from someone human but
flawed than some sanctimonious do-gooder who wouldn't
know great sex or physical attraction if it got into bed next to
them.'
'I suppose so.' Lizzie was feeling much better already. She
wished now that she'd told Susan weeks ago. It might have
saved her a few sleepless nights.
'I know so. First-hand experience is always the most educational...
Maybe we should make this a bit of a feature...'

'Susan...' Lizzie knew what was coming next. Susan had a
very commercial handle on everything. 'I don't want to become
the "me and my love triangle" side show, OK?'
'OK. Although, now you come to mention it, it does have a
bit of a ring to it.' Susan was just seeing how far she could push
her.
'Susan...' Lizzie's voice was loaded with warning tones.
'Come on, now--give me a bit of credit, will you? All I was
going to say is, how about you write about all this for the magazine
and come clean? You don't have to name any names, but
I bet you'd get a lot of sympathy...'
'And a few letter bombs?'
Susan ignored her interjection and carried on regardless.
'That way you pre-empt any future "scoops" by the tabloids,
and Rachel is left high and dry and without any ammunition.'
Lizzie could see that Susan had a point. A very good point.
Susan was right; she was going to have to learn to lighten up
a bit. What was done was done. Time to move on. And if she
could use all this to her advantage then what was the harm in
that?
'Not a bad idea.' She had to concede that Susan, on this occasion,
had made a not entirely unreasonable suggestion.
'Why--I thank you.' Susan dipped her head and took a
mock bow before an imaginary crowd. 'I only wish you'd
come and spoken to me earlier. I bet you've been worrying
yourself silly.'
Lizzie half-shrugged, half-nodded. 'Well, the way I saw it,
and the way Rachel had pitched it, I thought I was going to
have to give up everything I've worked for--but I was hardly
about to come running to you with my job in my hand. I needed
some time to think.'
They were momentarily interrupted by the arrival of their
wild sea bass, and Lizzie busied herself with water-pouring
while Susan flirted shamelessly. She was poised to take her
first mouthful when Susan refocused her attention on her.
'So now, of course, what I really want to know, darling--
and what I've been dying to ask ever since the launch--is was
he worth it? I want all the details. You dark horse, you...'
'Well...' Lizzie put down her knife and fork. It was going to
be a long lunch.
ichapter

I've got it, I've got it--and guess what? You're on the cover...'
Clare's voice, a crescendo of excitement, swirled up the stairwell.
Lizzie's
heart stopped mid-beat before starting again about
three times faster than normal. Cover-girl? No way.
'Prepare for sales to be up this week. Harri has got a pile on
the counter by the till and he's telling absolutely everyone in
there that you only live round the corner...'
Harri was one of life's unsung heroes. His tiny shop was a
neighbourhood cornucopia and thanks to his cash and carry
card and dedicated opening hours they'd survived many potentially
ruinous dinner party crises as he'd bailed them out
with emergency supplies of everything from turmeric to tights
to tonic water. Lizzie blushed at the thought of him reading all
the details of her personal crisis. The total strangers didn't
worry her. It was everyone else she had to be able to look in
the eye.
'...saw Colin in there. He sends you a kiss and asked me to
give you this.'
Clare produced a Toblerone from her jacket pocket.
'He said to tell you that they don't make chocolate love triangles
but this is as close as he could get...' Clare giggled.
By the sounds of it there was almost a street party atmosphere
down at the shop. Lizzie was glad she'd sent Clare instead
of going herself when woken early by a bout of
publication-date insomnia.
Clare practically pirouetted into the kitchen with her 'hot
off the press' copy, and Lizzie, hot on her heels, grabbed it from
her. There she was in colour. Glossy A4 colour. Susan had a
nerve. She'd never said anything about front covers at lunch;
nor when she'd rung to thank Lizzie for the first draft of her
article; nor when she'd asked if they could have a new photo
done to publish alongside it. No wonder she hadn't biked
round an advance copy this week. Shifting print deadlines, my
arse. Lizzie looked at the kitchen clock. Too early. She could
wait.
She didn't dare say anything out loud for fear of inciting serious
allegations of vanity, but Lizzie had to admit that she
wasn't looking too bad. She knew that on her way back from
the brink of despair, the fleeting appearance of her cheekbones
in a photo wasn't supposed to even register, and, granted, the
woman on the front didn't really resemble the flannel pyjama
girl in the kitchen right now, but Arabella was a marvellous
make-up artist. Without spots and bags, and with a lot of blow
drying, she could apparently look the part.
Her mother was always complaining that she didn't have a
decent up-to-date photograph of Lizzie. Now everyone who
knew her could buy one. The only problem was, she'd sort of
been hoping that Rachel and Matt might not see the article, but
this whole cover dimension was going to make that pretty impossible.
Obviously she hadn't mentioned them by name, and
she'd been careful not to identify them by association, but all
of a sudden the sense that Susan had made over lunch was deserting
her.
'I can't wait to read it, Liz.' Clare was hovering at Lizzie's
elbow, keen to reclaim her purchase, impatiently shifting her
weight from mule to mule, dying to see the article.
Lizzie, it appeared, wasn't quite ready to hand it back yet.
'Yeah right. I dare say you could have written it yourself.'
If anyone knew the situation inside out it was Clare. Lizzie
just hoped that she felt the article was appropriate. Lizzie
needed her on side. She was nervous. Her private life was
about to hit the public domain and, as confident as Susan had
been, Lizzie was sure that she'd underestimated the repercussions.
For one thing, she wasn't going to be able to go into a
newsagent or a branch of WH Smith for at least eight days
without a disguise.
Lizzie stared at the magazine in her hand. And there it was,
about two thirds of the way down on the right-hand side, half
printed over her shoulder.

My agony and my ecstasy
Confessions of an agony aunt

lizzie thumbed past countless adverts, scattering a broad selection
of flyers and offers on the floor in the process. Finally
she found page 154 and started to read. Clare gave up waiting
and busied herself with tea and toast duties, annoyed that she
hadn't thought to buy two copies or stopped to read it on the
way home.
Apparently absorbed by her all too familiar words, Clare
watched Lizzie walk over to the table and sit down on automatic
pilot. Lizzie could feel the pit of her stomach tighten.
Reading it all again was a bit like picking a scab. Impossible
to stop once you've started but something she knew she'd end
up regretting.

I've always lived my life by the rules--well, by most of them.
OK, I might have bought my first alcoholic drink in a pub when
I was fifteen, I might have parked across a driveway or on a
double yellow line in an emergency, and I might have even
smoked a joint or two at university, but I'd never purposely
done anything to hurt anybody. I regret to inform you that unwittingly
I just have. I hurt three people. Four including me.
Badly.
292
Jane Sigaloff


Emotional pain is much worse than any other kind. You
can't treat it with sutures, with Savlon or with any of the modern
medicine that, fed on a television diet o/Casualty and ER, we think we understand. We 're not talking de-fib, myocardial
infarctions, pulmonary embolisms, lacerations, enlarged livers
or any of the other conditions that we are alerted to on our
weekly dose of danger. We 're talking heartache and heartbreak.
Charging up the paddles won't help. There is only one
cure known to man. Time.
We will all recover. No blood was shed. Plenty of tears and
a couple of pounds (there had to be one upside), but none of
the red sticky stuff. But in order to move on we all need to learn
to forgive and not allow ourselves to be consumed by bitter
grudges. The parties involved will all have to accept their own
imperfections alongside my own.
The biggest lesson I've relearnt this year is one of the oldest.
It is, of course, that nobody's perfect. There are times in all our lives when our selective memories see fit to inform us
that we are unassailable, above reproach. But no. Not me, not
you, not anyone. I'd always thought that I had good judgement,
and then I met a man--my own Mr Perfect-for-now. I was
ready to stare cynics in the eye and undo their years of research
in one fell swoop. I was invincible. I had a ticket to ride on the
love train. And then, without any warning, it careered off the
rails and crashed. There was definitely a signal problem.
For the first six weeks of our relationship I was totally unaware
of one detail. He had a wife. When the truth did finally
surface, he told me that he was married in name only. I wanted
to believe him, and so for a few weeks I joined the ranks of all
those alleged heartless bitches, those red-taloned, calculating,
materialistic husband-stealers. But was it all long nails, negligees,
turquoise Tiffany boxes and steamy dates in European
cities? Was it glamour? Was it excitement? Or was it disappointment,
guilt, heartburn, rejection, betrayal and dissatisfaction
? I think you 're probably beginning to get the picture.
I fell in love with the wrong man, and yet by the time I found
out I was in up to my neck. Head over heels. It was new. We
were perfect for each other--or so I thought. Workaholics with
a shared passion for romantic comedies and my duvet. I should
have known better. How many good-looking guys in their mid
thirties come with hand luggage only? Did I smell a rat? Not
even the one I was sleeping with...yet my perfect date had become
my worst nightmare.

'Tea?' Clare tried to break into Lizzie's consciousness, but
the question ricocheted straight back. She might as well have
been invisible. Clare cleared her throat noisily. Still nothing.
Lizzie skipped forward to the final paragraph; she'd seen
enough.

...there'll be wives out there baying for my blood. There'll
be mistresses too, desperate to explain the attitude you need
to have to make it in life as 'the other woman', but I'm coming
clean to you now because I want you to know...and to
know from me. Now I just want to be able to move on. I don't
want to have unwittingly created a legacy that'll come back to
haunt me, and if there's anything to be learnt from all of this
I guess it's not to judge a situation, however it might first appear,
until you have all the facts. Whatever labels you want to
give us, we were just two people caught up in a whirlwind of
intensity. There was chemistry, there were promises, there was
even love. But there was no winner. Love did not conquer all.
Real life got in the way...

There was a deathly silence at the breakfast table. Matt had
only popped out to get milk, but the familiar face staring at him
from the magazine racks had been hard to miss and even harder
to ignore. At first he'd been surprised--angry, even--that
Lizzie had sold out, but once the shock had passed it didn't
seem that unreasonable. It was perfect spin. After all, she was
in the business of talking about problems, and he'd forfeited
the right to pass judgement a long time ago.
Having stared at a two-dimensional Uizzxt all the way home,
he couldn't wait to read all about it. Rachel, on the other hand,
seemed to be having a sense of humour failure. He'd patently
managed to do the wrong thing--again. But surely if he'd
seen the magazine and not said anything he'd have been accused
of keeping it from her? Plus, as Matt had just tried to
explain, no one would or could know who Lizzie was writing
about.
Mistake of the morning number two. Rachel had immediately
accused him of taking Lizzie's side over hers. He didn't
understand--if anyone came out of all of this badly it was him,
the two-timer. But maybe she would see that when she had finished
absorbing every syllable. She hadn't made a sound since
she'd snatched the magazine from him. She was usually an incredibly
speedy reader. He could only presume that she was
committing a few key phrases to memory.
He stared through her, waiting for her to finish. He wasn't
in love with her, and she knew it. Five years down the line, she
was just reluctant to give in, to be 'beaten'. It wasn't about love
for her, only a question of lifestyle, of appearances. He hoped
she was ready for a new look.

Back at Oxford Road, Clare had read the whole article and
was still talking to her--a tacit thumbs-up. Lizzie was relieved.
She'd had enough tension to last her a millennium. She
pretended to read the rest of the magazine as she waited for
the inevitable but it wasn't until nearly eleven that the phone
rang for the first time that morning.
'Darling.'
She'd been beginning to worry. The newsagents must have
been open for at least four hours by now, and she'd hoped her
mother was going to be sympathetic. Confessions a deux on
the sofa were one thing, but an article that her friends could
read was a different ballgame altogether. She just wanted
everything back to normal, when the most stressful things involved
missing buses and trains, running out of milk, paying
credit card bills--that sort of thing.
'Are you OK? Have you seen the article? Of course you
have...silly me. What am I saying?'
From the general babble she figured she wasn't about to get
the 'letting me and yourself down' lecture. She felt her spirits
lift a little.
'Well, well... My daughter, the mistress...who'd have
thought it? You look beautiful on the cover. So beautiful. Don't
worry about keeping your copy pristine; I just had to buy a couple
of spares. I'll keep one safe for your children. I'm so proud
of you.'
If Lizzie wasn't mistaken her mother was sounding quite
emotional. She decided not to ruin the moment by pointing out
that sleeping with someone else's husband wasn't especially
laudable. As for the 'keeping a copy safe for her children' moment,
it was best ignored.
'Thanks, Mum. I'm fine.'
'Well done, darling...' Lizzie noted her mother had reverted
to full stiff-upper-lip-matter-of-fact mode. She knew only too
well that underneath there was a ton of carefully concealed
emotion. She had to have inherited it from somewhere. 'Very
brave of you. And very poignant. Although I wish you'd come
to me about all of this straight away when it first happened,
instead of bottling it all up and waiting for Clare to send you
home. That's what I'm here for, I don't like to interfere most
of the time, but I have lived a life or two myself--and besides,
I am your mother.'
'Exactly... I guess I just thought you might not be thrilled.'
And, call her conventional, but lizzie, still felt a little uncomfortable
discussing her sex life with her mother.
Luckily Annie couldn't reprimand and listen at the same
time. She'd already moved on. 'Is everything all right between
you and Clare? I didn't realise you two had fallen out in the
first place. Honestly, darling, I'd really rather have heard it all
from you instead of having to read about the details in an article.
You are a funny one. I mean, thank God I got my hands
on a copy straight away before someone rang me about it.
Could you imagine the embarrassment if I hadn't seen it first?'

'Sorry. It was a very difficult time for me.' Lizzie interrupted
her mother. Irritation was beginning to creep in from
somewhere.
'I can see that. Well, I think this article can only do you
good...although heaven knows what the Monday Bridge girls
will think about all of this...'
It had to feature somewhere. Her life might be in tatters but
surely Lizzie should have thought twice before risking Annie's
standing in the Hampstead Bridge circles.
'And I didn't know you were going to be on the cover...'
'Neither did I until this morning.'
'This'U be the talk of the village. Goodness knows what
they'll all say.'
Lizzie's mother still referred to Hampstead as a village. It
was all about perception.
'They'll probably excommunicate you.'
Lizzie couldn't help but smile as she imagined an army of
sixty-year-olds refusing her entry to coffee mornings and leaving
her to sit alone at a green baize card table in the corner.
'You may well laugh.'
'To be honest, Mum, I doubt that Out Loud has a big circulation
among the over-sixties...'
A silence.
'Mum...?'
'You wouldn't think so...and it probably doesn't in most
places...but over the months I've probably--well, I might have
just possibly...'
'Browbeaten the entire female sixty-something population
of NW3 into reading the magazine?'
Honestly, Lizzie thought, sometimes Annie was her own
worst enemy. Maybe this would teach her--highly unlikely...
but just maybe...
'It's only because I care, darling. I know the industry is all about circulation figures, and I must say quite a few of them
have become a little bit hooked.'
Marvellous. Lizzie was glad that she'd only just discovered
that her mother's friends were becoming addicted to reading
her, at times, frank advice. Having a sexagenarian following
might just have inhibited her style a fraction. Her street cred
was shrinking rapidly.
'I know, Mum. Thanks. So, I haven't let you down?' She had
to ask. Her mother was only too aware of the surprising chink
of insecurity in her daughter's otherwise self-sufficient
armour.
Her tone softened. 'Of course not. It'll take more than a two
timing husband to bring you down in anybody's estimation,
you'll see...'
Relief washed over Lizzie. At times like this her family was
the business.
'I wonder whether he's seen it yet?'
The million-dollar question.

Matt was sitting on a bench by the station. Rachel had finally
gone to work, taking Out Loud with her, and so Matt had
bought another copy en route to the tube. Over an hour later
he was still there. There hadn't been a day since that magazine
launch that he hadn't wondered how she was. And then the
killer blow. In unassuming size eight Arial font. She had loved
him. Up to her neck.
He wanted to call. He knew he couldn't. On the face of it
things were just the same. He was still married. Still living with
Rachel. Not for long, though. He had to move fast. You didn't
just fall out of love with people, did you? In Hollywood's celluloid
world people didn't--true love always won in the end--
but in London?

It appeared that more people read Out Loud than Lizzie had
previously thought.
The City FM switchboard was flooded for the entire three
hours of her show, and only two of the eighteen callers who
actually made it on air were baying for her blood. Susan had
been right. Infidelity was flavour of the month. Confessions
poured in. The stereotype needed tweaking. Mistresses were
apparently one a penny and came in all shapes and sizes and
from all walks of life. No one, it appeared, was safe from a
willing adulterer.
Everyone wanted a piece of her. Robyn was playing the
weekend supplements off against each other while juggling re
298
Jane Sigaloff


quest faxes from several talk shows. Lizzie just waited for her
to call with a short list.
Her postbag swelled to new dimensions and the overwhelming
emotion coming through the letters wasn't bitterness,
hostility or revenge but relief. A lot knew their mistakes.
Just not what to do about them. They were not alone.
chapter

Look, we can't just go on pretending that everything's OK.
I'm leaving...' Matt spoke earnestly to the bathroom mirror as
he heard the front door click.
'Matt?' Rachel was confused. The front door wasn't double-locked,
but it was very early for him to be back. 'Are you
home?'
She'd had a shit day. No one had appreciated her at work,
and since Lizzie's article things with Matt were definitely
more than strained. She suspected there was no way back from
this particular precipice, but she couldn't bring herself to jump
either. Total inertia had set in--if you could be treading on
eggshells and in a state of inertia all at the same time.
'Up here...' Matt didn't know why he was telling her. It
wasn't as if he wanted her to join him in the bathroom. 'I'll be
down in a sec...'
Too late. By the time he'd nervously had one last pee he'd
heard the bang of the wardrobe door. He took a deep breath as
he flushed and felt his lungs fill with perhaps the most important
oxygen mixture of his life. He walked into the bedroom.
It felt like a moment. A proper, adult fucking scary moment.
His head suddenly pulsed with an emergency supply of adrenaline.
'How
was your day? Mine was crap...' She hadn't let him
get a syllable to the surface. Rachel, naked from the waist up,
was rummaging in her chest of drawers for something comfy.
The items discarded in her search for perfect casual attire were
strewn on the bed.
'Oh, not bad...' Matt was determined not to get side-tracked.
He had to keep himself focused.
'Fucking art directors... Think the whole world needs them
when quite frankly they're all shit...' Rachel wasn't listening,
just off-loading as she pulled on a T-shirt. Matt noticed that her
nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric. He didn't
feel arousal, nor affection. He walked over to her. At the incisiveness
of his move Rachel stopped faffing for a few moments.
This was it. His chance.
'Rach...' Matt hesitated for a second.
'Yeah...? What? What? Come on--out with it.' Rachel felt
dread inching along her spine as she sensed the inevitable. A
thousand years ago there would have been a sign--an omen,
a portent, a river of blood, a comet--something...something
more substantial than just a shitty day. Actually, come to think
of it, faced with wardrobe ennui that morning she'd picked
something new-old to wear, and her trousers hadn't felt as if
they'd fitted all day. She should have known something was
wrong.
'I'm leaving. It's not working and I can't keep pretending
that it is any more.' Relief surged through his veins. He'd done
it. Said it. Out loud. He only hoped Rachel had been listening.
Her emotional control was tip top.
'Don't be ridiculous. Where are you going to go, for goodness'
sake?' Rachel's fear metamorphosed to incredulity. How
could he leave her? She was the sort of person who did leaving,
not him. His loyalty was one of the things she'd found so
incredible when they'd first started dating. He was the ultimate
'for better for worse' candidate.
'James has got a spare room. I've packed a bag and I'm
really going. Tonight. I know you thought I'd never leave, but
it's time.'
Rachel felt sick. He'd actually made a proper plan. Atypical
behaviour. It wasn't that she hadn't seen this coming--of
course she had. But foolishly she'd just hoped it would all blow
over.
'You're out of your mind.' Instinctively she went on the offensive.
'What?'
'You're
just having a mid-life crisis..'
Why did she always have to try and undermine him? 'Don't
try that I-know-what-you're-really-thinking bollocks. I'm fine
and there's nothing mid-life about this. Just accept it--we're
over. I've been trying to tell you for weeks, but you just won't
listen to me.'
'You'll regret this. If you go now there's no second chance.
No kissing and making up when your testosterone levels return
to normal.'
'I don't want a second chance. We've given it about eight
chances already...and it's not what I want or what you want.
Admit it. Go on. Fucking admit it. Please, Rach. For Christ's
sake. You must live in some perfect dream world. We haven't
had a healthy marriage for ages.'
Rachel paused for a moment as she recoiled at the poise of
his attack. 'But...you'll never meet someone else like me.'
'Don't you get it, Rach? I don't want to.'
'Is this still about her? I can't believe it. A flash of blonde
hair and a longer than average inside leg measurement and you
men turn to putty. It's pathetic. She knows more about male
inadequacies than you ever will. She's an agony aunt, not an
oil heiress. She probably doesn't earn that much either.'
Matt felt his hackles rise. How could he ever have married
this in the first place? 'I'm not seeing her.'
'Not now, maybe... But you can't just go and test the water.
You leave and that's it.'
Rachel's aggression was building, and Matt resisted the
urge to rise to it. He knew she was upset, she'd lost control,
but the way she was behaving now was only making it easier
for him to go. He had never needed a beer more in his life.
'This isn't me leaving you for anyone. I need to sort myself
out. I need some time on my own. I think we've reached a point
way beyond repair, Rach, and if you were honest with yourself
for just a few seconds, instead of pretending to be emotionally
battered and bruised, you'd see that. Forget the
hard-done-by role-play, this is me you're dealing with. Me--
Matt. Don't even try and blame Lizzie for this. "We" had
stopped being "us" long before I ever met her. You've
changed--we've changed. You're happiest at work, surrounded
by adoring young boys, impressed and impressive older men
and a bottle or six of wine. All we have left is this place and a
not unimpressive joint collection of books, films, CDs, photos
and memories.'
He always had been proud of their DVD collection. She was
going to enjoy decimating that, just for starters. 'She's not just
going to let you walk back into her life, you know.'
This was weird. Funnily enough, they'd never really discussed
his feelings for Lizzie. But he knew he owed it to
Rachel to be honest this time.
'Not now, perhaps, but maybe one day. But even if it never
happens I can't do this any more. You can't be happy. I know
you want more--or me to be something more. Face it, we've
grown apart...'
Her expression was glazed. Matt had to make sure she was
listening. He had to penetrate her self-protective veneer. She
had to know he was serious.
'I'm not in love with you any more, Rachel, and if you're
completely honest with yourself I don't think you love me either.
We've just become a habit. A collective noun on paper but
not in practice. Security for each other. It's not enough any
more. I want more.'
Message sent...and from the change in Rachel's composure
he was sure that this time it had been received.
'But...but...' Rachel's bottom lip was quivering. It had
started as a distress signal, but she could already feel her distress
mutating to anger. To add insult to injury Matt was mak
303






ing up for his weeks of one grunt or two communication with
a veritable stream--make that a swollen river--of emotional
claptrap, and apparently he was still going strong.
'Face it, this isn't working. It hasn't been for months-- maybe even years. I only want the best for you, and for
me...and this isn't it.'
She snapped. 'You calculating son of a bitch. You had this
all planned out, didn't you? And I suppose this time I'm supposed
to be eternally grateful that you're bothering to tell me
first? So that's it, is it? Lizzie fucking wins.'
'This isn't about winning or losing. It's about the rest of my
life. I'm not happy. Don't you see? Don't you care?'
'You know how I feel about divorce. I never wanted to be a
divorcee.'
'Then maybe you should have treated me a bit more like a
husband and a bit less like a doormat.' Matt's voice was soft.
'You bastard, Matthew Baker. And to think I thought you
were different. Get out. Go on, go.' Rachel's tone was steely,
if eerily controlled. Matt couldn't wait to go. 'What the fuck
are you hanging around for? What do you want? A fucking
leaving fucking good luck in your new fucking home card? Get out.' Rachel was shrieking--and then suddenly she was sobbing.
Matt
watched her crumple, and as Rachel wiped the river
of mascara from her cheeks he was shocked. He didn't think
he'd ever seen her look so vulnerable.
She was the first to speak. 'How did this happen? I know
I've been blind...stupid...selfish, even. I know it's not been
right between us. But, Matt...I'm scared...I need you...' Matt was touched by this rare display of human frailty. He
crouched down and held her to him. 'It'll be OK...'

'I know, I know.' She was back to being brave, or trying to
be. 'I'll be fine. I guess I'm not in love with you either, but it's
just--I guess--well, I know you so well. I love having you
around.'
'You've got a funny way of showing it...'

Matt went for humour. It seemed to work. Rachel smiled,
albeit wanly.
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Jane Sigaloff





'I do love you, though...'
'Like a brother, maybe...but you're not in love with me. I'll
always be very fond of you, Rach, there's a part of me that will
always love you too. I don't want us to be bitter...and I don't
want you to blame Lizzie.'
"Well, as long as everything's all right for you, then. Don't
mind me. I'll try not to fuck up your fairy-tale ending.'
'Rachel...' Matt could feel her tensing again.
She wrestled herself from his grip. 'Look, go if you're
going. We can talk about this tomorrow or the next day. Maybe
we should meet for dinner next week?'
'Maybe.'
'Right.'
'Right.'
So this was it. Five years reduced to monosyllables. Matt
kissed Rachel on the cheek, picked up his bag and left.

'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.' Overwhelmed with frustration,
Rachel threw her empty wine glass into the kitchen sink and
watched it smash before heading for the drinks cabinet and
knocking back a few neat vodkas straight from the bottle.
She welcomed the almost instantaneous feeling of increasing
distance from reality as alcoholic warmth seeped through
her veins. Instinctively she rummaged in her bag for her mobile
and scrolled through the numbers. She found 'Will mob'
and pressed 'call'. It might not be Friday, but she needed a lost
weekend starting right now.
chapter

Lizzie and Clare sat cross-legged on the floor, their backs
against the sofa, sorting letters into piles. Faced with a couple
of extra postbags, Lizzie had broken house rules and brought
her work upstairs. Clare, at home on a rare day off, had soon
tired of watching television round her flatmate, who was apparently
constantly and increasingly irritatingly tearing open
envelopes. According to Lizzie's plan, Clare had adopted the
'if you can't beat 'em join 'em mentality', for which Lizzie was
incredibly grateful. The radio was on just loudly enough to inject
a little banal Top 40 normality into their day.
Provided they enclosed a return address, all the letters got
a reply of some description whether they were published or
not. It was the least she could do. If someone had taken the time
and the courage to write in, she owed it to them to compose a
personal response. Not a photocopied Dear.--insert name
with a Biro--thank-you-for-your-letter circular signed by an
assistant or a computer, but a proper note with, wherever possible,
some constructive advice.
In amongst the letters there were always a few red herrings.
People who'd sent in chain letters, messages from Jesus, bills
that needed paying, soft toys and the occasional shattered
round of home-made shortbread for Lizzie to enjoy with a cup
of tea and sympathy. Clare, to Lizzie's amusement was just unpacking
a hideous miniature cuddly frog from a grateful reader
when Lizzie opened an envelope which transformed her mood
completely.

Dear Lizzie
I just had to write in after reading your article. I'm
afraid that I'm one of those men who's had an affair, but
I suspect unlike some of your readers and listeners, it was
the best thing that I ever did.
My marriage was effectively over. I'd just been too lazy
to do anything about it, and then, when I met the woman
I really wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was still
married. Needless to say the woman in question left me
when she found out, and now I've finally decided to leave
my wife whether or not I get her back because I've realised
that I will never have with my wife what, for a few
precious weeks, I had with her.
She was a mistress. But only because I hadn't been
brave enough to make myself a divorce before she came
along.
Good luck with everything. I hope that you find the
happiness that you deserve.
Name & Address Withheld.

Lizzie turned the piece of paper over in search of clues, and
even smelt the sheet before checking the envelope. It was all
inconclusive. She read the words again before alerting Clare
to her latest wave of insanity.
'Clare. Read this.'
Lizzie handed her the page and watched Clare intently as
she read it. Her face remained disconcertingly expressionless
throughout.
'My heart bleeds. Well, you can't reply. He hasn't left his
307


address... Shall I trash it?' Clare was ready to crumple it into
a little ball.
'No. No...don't you see?' Lizzie wondered whether Clare
was being dim on purpose. 'I think it might be from him.'
'From...?' The penny dropped. Clare didn't need to say his
name out loud. 'Don't be daft, Liz. Rest assured he doesn't
have the monopoly on not having the guts to leave his wife.'
'But it could be...' Lizzie handed Clare the envelope as further
proof.
'Yes, it could be...but then again all you have here is a bit
of Times New Roman font, not professionally centred, margins
all over the place, on a sheet of white A4 printer paper
posted in a self-seal white envelope which the author probably
pinched from the office stationery cupboard before licking
a stamp and walking to the postbox outside his office in
time for the--' Clare squinted at the postmark '--five-thirty
collection in London Wl.'
'Precisely.'
'Which means "precisely" nothing. Liz, the number of
workers with access to white paper, a computer and a letterbox
in Wl is probably well over half a million.'
'But something about it makes me feel like it might be from
him.'
'Look, if you're going to become little Miss Clare Voyant
on me I might just have to move out again, which would be a
shame, because between you and me it's great to be back.
Face it, Liz, why would he bother with the whole anonymous
thing? It just doesn't make sense. You're doing so well at the
moment. Please be strong about all of this. You don't need him.
And, remember, he doesn't deserve you.'
This time Lizzie had to concede that Clare had a point. Still,
it didn't mean that she couldn't want it to be from him. That
just made her...certifiable?...a romantic?...embarrassingly optimistic...?
All of the above.
She was brought down to terra firma with a jolt when she
picked up the next letter in her pile. Unless she was totally mistaken,
it was a handwritten letter from Joe Dexter. His elongated
script was as distinctive as the brown ink that he had
always insisted on using. As if she needed any further confirmation
it had been franked at CDH. But it wasn't addressed
to Clare.
Gently folding it in half, she slipped it into the back pocket
of her jeans before heading for the bathroom. Resting her back
against the cistern, she skimmed the letter. Her hunch had
been correct.

Dear Lizzie
Congratulations on a great front cover and a frank and
interesting article.

He always had been a smooth operator. Lizzie felt her muscles
tense defensively and involuntarily. What on earth could
she do for the great Joe Dexter?

/ hope you don't mind me writing. I know I'm probably
still persona non grata, but I guess reading the article
made me think--and by some spooky coincidence
Clare recently bumped into Ed Wallace. I don't know if
you remember him--he was one of the ushers? Anyway,
I thought I'd be better off writing to you at work because
I suspect should Clare recognise my handwriting on an
envelope she might just file it, unopened, in the bin, or
flambd it ceremoniously on the hob. Anyway, it's not advice
I need but a favour. I'd really like to talk to Clare.
Just talk to her--to say sorry, maybe to meet up just as
friends if that's possible--but I don't dare call her at the
restaurant. It wouldn 't be fair and I'm not trying to give
her a nasty surprise. I've put her through enough but we
both know how stubborn she can be.

Lizzie smiled despite herself.

Anyway, I figured that you were the only person who
might be able to persuade her to call me. She can reach
me at the office on my direct line, at home or on my
mobile.
Yours, Joe

Scrawled barely legibly beneath his excessively large signature
were his contact numbers. He'd always had the most difficult
handwriting. He probably should've been a doctor. Lizzie
felt sure that without the computer revolution people like Joe
would never have made it to the top of their trees. One handwritten
memo and they would have been fired or sent to night
school.
Lizzie felt guilty. Clare was currently sitting on the sofa sorting
out her postbag while she was furtively and conspiratorially
reading letters from her ex-husband in their bathroom. She
put the letter back in her pocket and remembered to flush the
toilet for authenticity's sake, in case Clare was listening out
for her return.
Back in the sitting room Lizzie sat down and, without Clare
noticing, removed the letter from her pocket and pretended to
read it for the first time. Eventually Lizzie felt Clare watching her.
'This one's for you.'
Clare sat back and uncrossed her legs, stretching them out
in front of her to allow some of the blood that had been queuing
up behind her knee joint to make the journey all the way
to her toes. The relief was quite tangible as the blood almost
fizzed down the arteries in her shins.
Was this one going to be about a flatmate who was so highly
principled that she'd moved out over an affair? Was it about
someone who had started working in a restaurant and had put
on three stone in as many weeks? Or was it about a woman
who was addicted to having sex with waiters in staff toilets?
They'd had the latter already this morning. But Lizzie wasn't
cracking any jokes this time. Instead she just proffered a folded
piece of paper and a slightly apprehensive expression.
Lizzie might have known Clare for more than a decade but
she wasn't sure how she was going to take this one. She could
recall Clare's total devastation as if it were yesterday, and sure
enough Clare stiffened as soon as she saw her ex-husband's
distinctive brown script. Lizzie scuttled off to the kitchen to
give Clare a little bit of space, but returned a few moments later
brandishing two chilled bottles of Fosters Ice and waited for
Clare to finish.
Clare instinctively reached out for the drink and took a long
swig of the ice-cold lager--unnervingly refreshing and entirely
appropriate even at 12:03 p.m.--before she looked up from her
letter.
Lizzie stared at her, looking for any tell-tale cracks, but
there was nothing. Only six months earlier the sight of Joe's
writing would have guaranteed tears of hurt or frustration.
Today she was calm.
'He's got a nerve, that man.' Clare was staring at a fixed
point on the horizon. Lizzie didn't know how to take her last
comment so decided not to take it at all, and instead concentrated
on reading a few more letters until Clare returned from
wherever it was she had just gone.
It was minutes before Clare started speaking again. Lizzie
put her work down and gave her her undivided attention. She
didn't want to miss a syllable or an inflection.
'Of course I'll never be able to forgive him.'
'Of course,' Lizzie echoed. She was doing that friendship
thing. Just reiterating what was being said without adding anything
new. That way she wouldn't have to do any colossal
U-turns a few minutes, days, weeks, months down the line.
'But I might just call him'
'Why not?'
But Clare wasn't listening to Lizzie.
It's funny...but since I ran into Ed the other week at CDH
I've thought about Joe quite a bit. It all seems so long ago, almost
another lifetime. I was such a different person. So naive.
So in love. So not aware of who I really was and what I really
wanted.'
'Mmm.'
'It's weird, but in a strange way now I see our divorce as the
end of my childhood--my coming of age or something. Maybe
I'll give him a call... What do you think? I suppose in a way
I'm curious. It wouldn't do us any harm to meet up, would it?'
'As long as you feel that you're ready and it's on your terms
I don't see why not. Phone him. Have a chat. And if he doesn't
annoy you in the first ten seconds then suggest a drink...'

Clare paused while she reflected on the reality of meeting
up with her ex-husband. Lizzie took her silence to represent
doubt.
'If it's all too much, and too painful or awkward or difficult,
you don't have to meet him more than once. And if you tell
me which night you're going I'll arrange to be working at
home just in case you decide you need me and want to meet
up for a post-drink drink or something.'
'Thanks.'
Lizzie was secretly delighted at Clare's new approach.
While she doubted that a romantic reunion would ever be on
the cards, the clearing-of-the-air-and-remaining-occasional
friends option would certainly be much better for Clare's
liver--which presently had to endure her drinking herself into
oblivion on their wedding anniversary, his birthday and other
significant dates from their shared past.
'I'm absolutely gobsmacked that he wrote. It's so...so...sowell...un-Joe.'

Lizzie had to agree. 'Maybe it's from an impostor?'
Clare laughed. Lizzie could be so left of field sometimes.
'I think I will give him a call.'
Lizzie leapt to her feet and returned with the handset in seconds.
Clare
shook her head. 'Haven't I taught you anything? I'll
think I'll give him a call means some time in the next couple
of days, not some time in the next ten minutes.'
'Oh. Right. Course.'
'In fact, Liz, I was going to ask you something else.'
'Mmhm?'
'Well...'
If Lizzie wasn't mistaken Clare was almost being coy.
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Jane Sigalqff


'Well, I was actually thinking about giving Ed a call anyway.'
'Really?'
Clare
was doing her best to be offhand. She might have
fooled a few people but not Lizzie, not this time.
'Well, he was quite sweet the other week, and he's left me
a couple of messages since...'
A couple of messages and Clare hadn't breathed a word.
Lizzie was amazed. Clare had missed her vocation. She would
have been a great member of the intelligence services. Secrets
really were her forte.
'I promised him supper some time and--well, I thought we
could have dinner together. I'd always thought he was a bit too
posh to be truly desirable, but there was definitely something
there the other day...although I'm so out of practice that maybe
it was just nerves.'
Lizzie laughed. 'Just get a load of yourself. Justify, justify.
Go with the flow and see what happens. Stop worrying.'
'Well, I might.' Clare pretended not to care and busied herself
with shuffling an already fairly tidy pile of letters on the
floor next to her.
'Go on. Call him. It's about time you had a bit of fun.'
'I might do. Anyway, it's just dinner.'
'Just dinner...look, I'll call him if you like. I owe you about
forty-three favours at last count.'
'Don't even think about it. Anyway what would you say?
No... Look, now you're making me nervous. I knew I shouldn't
have said anything. Honestly, I'll do it myself...'
Lizzie proffered the phone for the second time in several
minutes.
'Later. Maybe tomorrow. But you don't think it would be a
strange thing to do?'
'What? Phone someone who's left you a few messages and
who you promised dinner to? Now, let me see...'
'Don't be so hard on me, Liz. You know--in terms of Ed
being an old friend of Joe's and everything.'
313





'Absolutely not.' Lizzie got to her feet and returned the
handset to its base on her way to the kitchen. Clare really was a very cool customer.
chapter

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.'
Lizzie took the stairs two at a time and wished she could be
just a little bit more organised. There was no fresh air in London
at all, and the warm sticky humidity was responsible for
the grimy film of sweat that had now formed an uncomfortable
layer between her linen shirt and her skin as she battled
the heat all the way back to Putney to pick up her production
file. Grime permeated every pore. She was going to have to
change.
She looked at her watch and wondered if she might be able
to squeeze a two-minute shower in to the now non-existent
time she had before she had to brave the London Underground
again. Flinging her paper on the kitchen table, she rubbed her
hand on her nose, coating it in newsprint. She'd gripped the Evening Standard like a baton since she'd bought it, but hadn' t
even had the space to open it on the tube so, with the exception
of a couple of the larger headlines which she'd managed
to pick up over the shoulders of her fellow commuters, she was
none the wiser as to what was happening out there. Current affairs
would just have to wait.
She was pulling a skirt up over her not entirely dry legs
when the doorbell rang. She checked her watch for the fifth
time in as many minutes. She was turning into the white rabbit.
Four forty-five. Intrigued as to who would ring their doorbell
on a Tuesday afternoon, Lizzie half hopped to the entry
phone as she attempted to slip her shoes on and button up her
shirt over a clean strappy top while maintaining a constant velocity
in the general direction of the intercom. She got to the
screen without breaking a leg, although she seemed to have
managed to start sweating again, but her discomfort was
quickly forgotten as to her delight there appeared to be a florist
on the doorstep.
She shouted hello before tying her hair up in order to allow
convection to start cooling the nape of her neck. Flapping her
arms in a chicken-like manner, to encourage air to circulate
under her armpits, she arrived on the doorstep to relieve the
delivery man of his bouquet. Like most girls, Lizzie didn't believe
that you could ever have too many stamens in your house,
and even the most ardent feminists and all coping women were
reduced to mush on receipt of a large bunch. Clare was a true
believer in the uplifting power of the flower, and their flat had
been truly petaltastic since she'd moved home.
Maybe they were from Ed? It was about time Clare was
hotly pursued by an eligible male, but that would mean Clare
had called him within forty-eight hours after all. What a fluke
that she'd been home, and what a relief. The trouble with having
Colin as a neighbour was that any flowers ever left with
him were always arranged in a selection of vases and distributed
throughout his flat--just so they could have a drink, of
course--before Clare or Lizzie got there. It then somehow
seemed petty to gather them all up and take them upstairs, even
if they had been theirs in the first place.
Lizzie resisted the urge to kiss the Interflora man when he
told her that the flowers were in fact for her. She might have
been more tempted if he hadn't had a moustache.
'What a lovely surprise--and what a fantastic bouquet.
Mmm.' Lizzie stuck her nose in amongst the heads and
breathed deeply. 'They smell gorgeous.'
'Sign here, madam.'
'You can't have too many--that's what I say.' She signed
his chitty with a flourish. Her time deadline forgotten in the
pollen of the moment, and elated by his delivery, Lizzie chatted
at him. She was determined to coax a conversation out of
him. What was it with people in London? Would it have killed
him to say just a few words? Did you have to pay extra for
friendly?
'I can't wait to get them upstairs and see who they're from.
I bet they're gasping for a drink. It's so hot today, don't you
think?'
The smile on his face was sardonic, to say the least. But
Lizzie had done it. He was going to say something. The art of
conversation might be rusty but she'd be damned if it was
dead yet...not on her doorstep.
'Well, I hope you've got enough vases in there. You girls are
very popular.'
Lizzie laughed out loud. She wasn't sure why. He hadn't
said anything particularly funny. But she was very over-excited.
What a great job he had. Delivering happiness to women
all over London.
He turned assertively, silently intimating the end of their exchange.
As he ambled towards his van he was muttering so
loudly that he was practically talking to himself. Great. He
wouldn't talk to his customers but he'd talk to himself. Lizzie
refused to let it get to her. After all, she had an enormous
bunch of flowers to arrange. As he walked up the path and
closed the gate behind him she caught the end of what he was
saying.
'Daft cow. "Lovely surprise..." Yeah...good one. Like blimmin'
clockwork for the last six weeks. Poor geezer has even
stopped bothering to leave a message on the card these days.'
As Lizzie carried the flowers upstairs to the kitchen she went
over what she'd just overheard. Last six weeks? Either the
heat had got to him or Clare was secretly sleeping with a man
with an Interflora account... And Lizzie had thought she'd
been buying flowers to cheer her up in her moment--well, moments,
make that weeks--of need. Cheapskate!

Lizzie rushed to find the biggest vase they had and carefully
fed a few weary stems to their spring-loaded, aggressive American-style
swing bin to avail herself of the ideal receptacle. Half
hurrying, she filled it from their over-zealous mixer tap, giving
herself her second shower of the afternoon. She was well
aware that flower arranging would be frowned upon as an excuse
for her tardiness at City FM, but by the same token she
couldn't just leave them gasping for water on the worktop. She
shook in a generous helping of the flower food that had come
attached and stirred it vigorously with a knife that was handily
lurking amongst the drying up. While she was waiting for
the powder to dissolve she unpicked the mini envelope from
the brown paper and opened it.
The card was blank.
Lizzie must have turned it over several times before conceding
that there really was nothing on it except for the slightly
naff print of a rose in the top left-hand corner and the florist's
stamp on the reverse. She checked the envelope in case there
was another card lurking within. Nothing. She'd been cheated.
She toyed with the idea of calling the shop in case the woman
with the bubble writing and only rudimentary spelling skills
had somehow forgotten to include the vital greeting bit, but she
really didn't have time. She could always pop in tomorrow on
her way to the station.
Lizzie automatically went to pin the card on the kitchen noticeboard,
next to her and Clare's collection of yellowing wedding
invites, expired coupons off new cereals and cleaning
products, mini-cab numbers, assorted takeaway menus and
postcards. As she took a pin from a remote area of the board
a whole pile of papers floated towards the floor, dispersing far
and wide in their moment of liberation on their journey to the
tiles. Lizzie gathered them up as quickly as she could, and was
assertively pinning them back while searching for an alternative
and less crucial drawing pin from their collection when
she caught sight of the writing on the half-hidden card that had
accompanied the flowers Matt had sent her after their first
night together.
Momentarily distracted from the task in hand, Lizzie indiligently, and a little wistfully, carefully freed it from its position.
Over the months it had disappeared under several layers
of junk mail. It was a little faded, but otherwise intact. Bar,
of course, half a dozen pin holes where layers had been added
on top. It was also, Lizzie noted, identical to the blank card in
her hand. The same pink rose in the corner and the same
florist's address on the back. Could they be?
Lizzie picked up the bouquet and cut through the string
holding the flowers together before shoving the stems roughly
into the water. In Lizzie's imagination she could almost hear
them sigh with relief as they took a long cool drink. Aesthetics
could wait. Right now she had a call to make and a meeting
to attend. Time was ticking confidently towards an inflexible
deadline, and so she took the executive decision not
to risk the jackpot of the tube and called a cab before leaving
a message on Ben's voicemail. She was on her way. In just a
minute.
For once Clare answered her mobile almost immediately.
Lizzie was relieved. She needed a good dose of Williamson
cynicism and fast.
'Clare. Thank God.' Lizzie was now running so late that she
was practically out of breath. It didn't really make sense, but
right now very little about the last half an hour did.
Clare sounded concerned at her best friend's agitation. 'Liz?
Are you OK? Is something the matter? What are you doing at
home? Shouldn't you be at City?'
Lizzie was fine. Except for a serious case of stomach churning
which she was sure wasn't fatal, and a bit of a bad hair day
which hadn't been helped by London Underground, the humidity,
her shower or their mixer tap. All she needed Clare to
do was shoot her latest madcap theory down in flames so she
could get to work.
'Cab's on its way. Muppet that I am, I flipping well left my
file on the kitchen table this morning, didn't I? Running seriously
late now.' Lizzie looked at her watch. Yup, they'd all be
waiting, slagging off self-important-presenters-who-just
thought-they-could-waltz-in-whenever-they-felt-like-it. She
hated being late. 'Listen. I'm sorry to disturb you but something
strange has just happened.'
'What?'
'Well, flowers have been delivered for me. At first I thought
they might be for you, from Ed or someone, but they weren't.
Anyway, there's nothing on the card.'
'No message?'
Clare, it seemed, was being dense--on purpose.
'Exactly.'
'Anonymous flowers?'
'Yes.'
'I wonder who they're from?'
'That makes two of us.'
'Oh, by the way, I'm seeing Ed tonight.'
'Anyway, I sort of had this mad idea-- What? Ed?' Lizzie
stopped herself for a moment. 'What--really?' Lizzie was
temporarily blown off-course by this pseudo-offhand delivery
of what at any other less self-centred moment would have
been a very juicy bit of gossip. Typical Clare. Just throw in that
rather significant detail when Lizzie was barely paying attention.
'Are you going on a date, Miss Williamson?'
'Hardly. Just a bit of dinner.'
'Bit of a busman's holiday for you, then.'
'Well...'
'Did you call him?'
'Of course not...'
Of course not. What was Lizzie thinking?
'I told you before. He called a few times and then he popped
into Union Jack's the other day. Said he was passing.'
'Passing Notting Hill...from Fulham?'
'Well...'
'Clare, don't be so naive. I think you'll find that Mr Wallace
has a bit of a thing for you. How exciting. Just what you
need.'
'Well... Look, it's probably nothing. Just a bit of dinner.'
'Whatever.' Lizzie was beginning to get annoyed. If Clare
just chilled out a fraction she might even her enjoy herself.
Clare was beginning to wish she hadn't said anything now.

She wanted the spotlight switched off, but there was only one
way to get Lizzie off the subject and that was to return her good
self to the centre of the conversation.
'So--a secret admirer. How exciting for you... Any ideas?
Had any over-attentive cab drivers lately?'
'Well--and let me finish before you tell me to get a life--
but, well, I was just pinning the card on the noticeboard, as I
always do, and in the process a whole lot of stuff fell off... Anyway,
underneath I spotted the card from the flowers that Matt
sent me in December...and...well...the card's identical and the
flowers are from the same florist...' Lizzie was beginning to
realise quite how ludicrous this was all sounding now the
words had left the confines of her over-active mind. She wished
she hadn't rung Clare. This moment wasn't going to help her
credibility at all.
'So...?'
Clare the pragmatist was in town. Probably no bad thing as
far as Lizzie's sanity went. She really had a vivid imagination.
'They came from the same florist. That's all. It must be our
nearest Interflora-affiliated one. They obviously only have one
naff card design to choose from. Conspiracy theory over.'
Clare was right--as usual. Lizzie was a little disappointed--
as usual.
'Maybe you're suffering with a touch of heatstroke, what
with all this rushing around.'
Lizzie was on the verge of conceding defeat and handing
herself over to social services when she remembered the cryptically
certifiable delivery man. 'But hang on. The guy that delivered them said something about us having flowers delivered
once a week..."like clockwork", I think was what he actually
said. For the last six weeks.'
'Well...' Clare's telephone manner changed instantly. Hesitancy
crept into her usually dogmatic tones. Lizzie detected
the transformation at once.
'Well what?'
'Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.' She'd made a good
recovery, but something still didn't ring true.
'Clare...?'
'What?'
'Come on. You've gone all defensive on me.'
'Have not.'
'You have.'
'Haven't.'
This wasn't going anywhere. Clare and Lizzie were currently
espousing the we-are-seven-and-a-half-years-old approach
to discussion. The sort that only ended in hair-pulling,
scratching or pinching. Lizzie decided to break the deadlock
before it got out of hand.
'I know you, Clare, and I can tell when you're being all
funny with me.'
'WelL.the thing is... No... I can't... Wait there. I'll come
home.'
'For God's sake., just spit it out, will you? I can't hang
around. I've got a live radio show starting in under two hours
and a production meeting ten minutes ago, and I'm not doing
either until you stop playing silly buggers with me.'
Clare took a deep breath. 'You're going to hate this...promise
you won't hate me?' Clare was sounding quite anxious. Not
something that Lizzie had realised Clare knew how to sound.
'Of course I won't hate you. Well...?'
Clare exhaled audibly before beginning a confession at
break-neck speed.' You'vebeensentflowerseveryweekforthelastsixweeksandl'vebeeninterceptingthemandgiving
theoddbunchtoColinandspreadingtherestroundthe
houseinvariousvasesandpretendingthey'refromme.'
'Why on earth...?' But Lizzie already knew. She wasn't sure
whether to jump for joy or burst into tears. Her mind was racing
and she was struggling to keep up.
'Liz...Liz...? Are you there? I'm so sorry. I thought I was
doing a good thing. Only now I'm having to confess it sounds
nothing but bitchy and calculating, but that's honestly not what
I intended to be at all. You've just had so much on your plate,
and you're doing so well again now, I guess I didn't want anything
to spoil it...'
Lizzie was speechless. Genuinely speechless.
'I've got the other cards. They're not all blank. If you go to

J
my bedside table and forage in the second drawer down, under
all those ripped-out recipes which are still waiting to be put in
a file, they should be there.'
Lizzie found them in no time. Five cards. All the same. All
from previous bunches. Four with messages. One blank.
'Listen, Lizzie? Liz, honey, are you still there? Look. I'm
so sorry. I realise that it wasn't up to me. I mean, who am I to
decide whether or not you have flowers?' And then, to herself,
'What did I think I was playing at? Have I completely lost my
marbles?'
Lizzie was barely listening. She was just staring at the cards.
Enthralled. They were all from Matt. Matt who she didn't
think cared any more. Matt who had been ignoring her since
the Blue launch. Only he hadn't been. There, in front of her,
were the sort of messages that she'd been hoping so hard for
over the last six weeks.

Can you ever forgive me? Sorry. Love you. Matt
Hope you're coping. Can this have a happy ending? Love
Matt
I have some news. Call me at work. Enough Agony. How
about some Ecstasy? Love Matt
I'm not giving up. I'm here for you any time you need
me, Matt xx

Lizzie was somewhere between euphoria and hysteria. Clare
was still on the other end of the phone justifying away. Lizzie
was only dimly aware of what she was saying. Something
about Rachel going ballistic if she found out that Matt had been
in touch. Some more about Lizzie being hurt enough already...and
lots about being sorry.
Lizzie had had enough.
'Clare. Shut up.' It didn't even sound aggressive. Lizzie was
too pleased with herself to be properly cross. She was, however,
a little disappointed at Clare's behaviour.
'Oh, good. You're still talking to me.'
'How could you?' Clare felt silent while Lizzie did her best
323


to sound disapproving even when she felt like cartwheeling
across Clare's room. The trouble was, even though she knew
she should have been, she wasn't really angry. For once she'd
played hard to get--admittedly, not of her own volition--but
she had and, while she hated to admit it, it almost felt good.
'I thought we were a team, Clare.'
Clare found her voice again and decided to use it. 'We were.
We are. We are. I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me.'
'You were just trying to protect me from myself. I know exactly
what you were trying to do. But, Clare, I'm old enough
to make my own mistakes. You're my flatmate, not my
guardian.'
But despite the frown in her voice Lizzie couldn't drum up
any real fury. If she and Matt were meant to be there would
come a time when they would look back on this and laugh. Six
weeks ago she wouldn't have been ready for this moment, but
now her demons had been exorcised and she was. However,
she didn't want to be too easy on Clare. This was a very rare
reversal of power.
'I know--I know...' Lizzie wondered where Clare was at the
moment. By the sound of it she was practically genuflecting.
'I'm sorry. I feel like such a cow. Why don't you give him a
call?'
'Nice try, but I'm learning. I'm not going to call him in the
next five minutes.'
'Why not?' Clare was surprised at herself. 'It won't do any
harm. He's already been waiting for weeks, and if you call now
you might still catch him at work. He's obviously mad about
you. What on earth did I think I was doing?'
Lizzie noted that Clare must be feeling incredibly guilty to
be actively encouraging her to call him. She smiled to herself.
'Look, I'm not rushing into anything. First things first. I need
to know what's happened to Rachel.'
'Good girl. I'm proud of you. Listen, I only want the best
for you.'
"Thanks. I love him, you know.'
'I know...' Clare was genuinely moved by the strength of
Lizzie's feelings. Her principles were melting around her. 'And
if Matt really is the one for you then, believe me, I will be skipping
up that aisle behind you.'
Lizzie laughed. 'Hey, one step at a time.'
'That's rich, coming from you...'
'Well, maybe I've changed.'
'That'll be the day. Just woe betide Matt if he turns out to
be another Joe.'
'Speaking of whom...'
'Yes...?' Clare was stalling.
'Has a call been made?'
'It's only thirty hours since I got the letter.'
'And counting... So? How long, according to your rules, before
you are allowed to pick up the phone while maintaining
full ice maiden status? Do yourself a favour, Clare, lighten up
and don't worry about every eventuality all the time...'
'I'll call him.'
'Promise?'
'Promise.'
'Good...' Lizzie caught a glimpse of Clare's alarm clock.
'Shit. I've really got to go. I'm running seriously late. I hope
my cab's outside.'
'Listen, good luck with the show. I'll see you later on, when
you get home.'
'If you're back from your hot dinner date.'
'Shut it, Liz. It's just dinner.'
'Course it is. My mistake.'
'Liz...' Clare was feeling quite giggly despite herself. If she
wasn't mistaken she was feeling--well, just old-fashioned excitement,
'...just once more for the record, I'm sorry.'
'You will be if you've got a stash of love letters in a shoe
box under your bed.'
'None, I promise.'
As the cab fought its way to the studios Lizzie resisted the
increasingly strong urge she now had to call Matt. She didn't
want to snatch a five-minute call, and she was late enough for
her meeting without deliberately delaying herself any further.
There were only a few minutes spare after the production
meeting before she was due on air, and as the opening jingles
rolled she did her utmost to ignore her hyperactive mind, which
was currently insisting on presenting her with a multitude of
hypothetical scenarios. She tried to focus on the amended running
order in front of her as she wondered whether Matt would
be listening tonight, or whether after weeks of dedication he
had finally given up on the girl who had failed to acknowledge
a single petal?
As the red light flicked on to give Lizzie her final cue, a
surge of adrenaline finally emptied her mind of all the unanswerable
questions.
chapter

I ou're listening to City on 99.9 FM, and this is summer in
your city. Keep it cool while we get hot.'
The all too familiar pre-recorded growl of Danny Vincent--
thankfully the closest he got to her these days--cut to the studio
where Lizzie was waiting live and ready for action.
'Hi, I'm Lizzie Ford and you're listening to The Agony and
the Ecstasy on City FM. It's Tuesday night, it's 8:03, and I'm
here with you for the next three hours. So, if something's bothering
you at the moment--if you've got an emotional or personal
crisis on your hands, or you just want a shoulder or a
sounding board--give me a call. The time is now and you
know the number. 0990 99 88 77. That's 0 double nine 0. Double
nine, double eight, double seven.
'Coming up over the next three hours we'll be taking lots
of your calls, playing some top summer tunes and giving you
the last clue for our competition. So, if you want to find yourself
and a mate jetting off for a weekend to die for in a Hot
City, stick with us.
'But first it's time for some music. Coming up, a bit of
"Fast Love" from George Michael. Sit back, open a window
and a can of something cold, turn this up and enjoy the feeling
of summer with the city. We'll be going to the phones right
after these two...'
Lizzie looked across to her sound engineer, Phil, who effortlessly
mixed George up and Lizzie down while giving her
a wink. They were off. She now had five minutes and twenty
five seconds of George Michael and four minutes and twenty
one seconds of Stardust in which to study the running order
and get the lowdown on her first two callers.

Matt drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to
the music as he inched forward in the traffic jam. This was precisely
why he rarely drove in London any more. Heat seeped
into his personal space from every angle, and despite the fact
that his car was a roof-free zone there was a total absence of
anything remotely fresh about any of the air around him. As
he ground to a halt a wave of hotter air cascaded into his lap
and a new trickle of sweat melted into his already damp T-shirt.
Forgetting about his lack of roof, Matt sang along enthusiastically,
failing to notice the bemused expression of the motorist
to his right. George really knew what he was talking
about. Infected by the beat, he was soon nodding moronically
in time to the music, and as he started dancing in his seat he
joined in again. More song lyrics that seemed to have entered
his subconscious by osmosis. It never failed to amaze him just
quite how extensive his archive was. Forget MP3, he had his
own built-in download facility. Matt adopted a suitable falsetto
for the Patrice Rushen sample. Maybe he should have sent
Lizzie forget-me-nots instead of a mixed bouquet this week.
He had to admit she was sounding good tonight. He'd only
ever used to drive into work in emergencies in the past--what
with the second mortgage for parking all day, the worry that
his car might not even be there when he got back, or that someone
might have slashed his roof--but now it was the only way
he got to listen to her show on his own arid, while he didn't
want to come across as some sort of stalker, it was the only
contact he had with her these days. Not that it was real contact, of the two-way variety, but at least by listening he could
chart her mood, gauge how she was doing--or at least that was
what he told himself.
She still hadn't called. Upset? Hmm, yes...but he couldn't
blame her. In fact, if he was honest, he actually had a great deal
to thank her for. Since he'd moved in with James he'd been
feeling a lot more like--well, like he'd remembered he used
to feel. That anything was possible, that the world was his,
every dream a real possibility. He knew that to the uninitiated
it looked bleaker--he'd lost his wife, his home and his love
interest--but it didn't feel like that. He was liberated. Free. To
do exactly what he wanted to do. His only regret: that he hadn't
done it years ago.
He watched the lights change as he crept forward a few metres
in total synch with the bumper of the gleaming TVR in
front. It was a modern-day tragedy. £45,000 of hand-built performance
car forced to do 0-30 in thirty minutes. Matt almost
believed that it was crueller than battery farming. Almost.

Before she knew it Ben was counting her down to the next
link. Lizzie scribbled a few notes on her next callers in the margin
as the last few bars played out. Some tracks were just pure
summer, and tonight it was un-Britishly hot--one of the four
or five evenings of the year when she wished that she and Clare
had a garden for BBQing and al fresco beer-drinking. Lizzie
was determined to make the most of the heat before the idiosyncrasies
of global warming let everyone down again with a
late-June cold snap just when they'd managed to find a flattering
pair of shorts.
'Well, that was George Michael and "Fast Love", followed
by Stardust and "Music Sounds Better With You". More music
coming up in a few minutes--and believe me, we've got some
great tracks lined up for you this evening, including classics
from the New Radicals, Texas, Lauryn Hill, and some even
older tunes that I guarantee you'll enjoy. But first let's take a
couple of calls--after all, that's why I'm here. It's 8:12 on a

hot, sticky evening, and we've got Sarah on line one. Hello,
Sarah. What can I do for you?'
'Hi, Lizzie.' She sounded quite upbeat. Lizzie gave her team
a thumbs-up. There was nothing worse than a monosyllabic
first caller.
'Hi...'
'Well, the thing is...'
Sometimes Lizzie really had to fight the urge to hurry her
callers along. It didn't help that tonight she was feeling more
impatient than normal and there was a surfeit of nervous
energy currently looking for a channel out of her system. But
she had to be a paragon of patience and understanding. The listeners
were patient and anxious to hear the full story, and
therefore, Lizzie argued, so should the production team be.
'Go on...'
'Well, it's this bloke at work. I got off with him last Friday
night. He said he'd fancied me for ages and we went for a few
drinks, and--well, you know...'
'Right.'
'Well, we didn't sleep together or anything, but I was really
excited and he said some really nice things to me. I played it
cool all weekend...'
All weekend... Ben started laughing silently in the corner
of the studio and whispered, 'Give the girl a medal,' to Phil.
Lizzie shot him a dirty look. She understood exactly where
Sarah was coming from.
'...and when I got into work on Monday I sent him an
e-mail--just to say thanks, you know, and to suggest that we
did it again some time...'
'Mmhm...' Lizzie made sure that Sarah knew she was listening
without interrupting her.
'But he completely ignored it At first I wondered if, you
know, maybe it had got lost in a cyber cul-de-sac or something,
or that maybe I'd spelt his name wrong or put the dot in the
wrong place. I know, I know--I should've known better. Anyway,
this morning I found out that he spent most of yesterday
dissing me to his mates, telling them that I couldn't keep my
hands off him, that I was really desperate, all that sort of stuff.
But that's not how it was on Friday at all. He made a move on me. I just can't bear the thought of everyone talking about me
behind my back. I can't believe he's behaving like this. I'm not
even gutted any more. I just feel stupid for not seeing through
him earlier.'
'Sounds like a case of immature office male to me. How old
are you, Sarah?'
'Twenty-six.'
'Right. Well, as hard as this may seem, you've just got to
take this in your stride and not let him get to you. From the
sound of it he's not worth it, and if you're not visibly reacting
to him and his mates then I'll bet he'll soon lose interest in
spreading unfounded rumours. By getting angry and defensive
F m afraid it only looks like you have something to hide. If you
just get on with everything as normal he'll be the one that ends
up looking stupid. Ten out of ten for keeping yourself out of
his bed. That would have made you feel a whole lot worse.'
'You're right. Thanks. I just can't believe I was so stupid.'
'You're not the only one out there, Sarah. In fact--straw
poll. Hands up here in the studio everyone who's snogged a
colleague in the past and it's all ended in awkwardness or
tears... Hmm. Let's see...I'd say that's five out of six of us.'
Sarah giggled. "Thanks, Lizzie. I feel heaps better already.'
'Hey, no worries, Sarah. Better luck next time.'

All was not well in the driver's seat. He didn't like to admit
it, but Lizzie was sounding different tonight. Her mood was--
well, cheeky, almost, excited, happy. Too happy. Something
had changed since last Thursday. She'd been just as good
then--funny, even--but this was different. Now she was being
almost flirtatious. He slumped in his seat. Fuck. Could she have
met somebody else? All the odds were in her favour. Intelligent,
beautiful, funny, sexy--very sexy--and available. God,
he was stupid to think she would just be around for him for
ever.
He took a piece of chewing gum from the supply he kept in
his glove compartment and chewed vigorously. He'd kept
I

Name & Address Withheld331

telling himself that he just wanted her to be happy, and after
what he'd put her through it was the very least she deserved,
but what about his chance to get things right? To show her he
was serious? He was living on his own now. Happy alone. Not
just behaving like a typical male and flinging himself from one
woman to the next, regardless of name, face or personality. She
deserved so much more than he'd given her. She wasn't responding
to his overtures of reconciliation, but he really
wanted to talk to her.
Frustrated, he spat his gum onto the tarmac before drumming
his fingers on the side of the car. He dialled the City FM
number into his mobile and held the phone to his ear, but he
didn't press 'call'. As the traffic ground to a halt once again,
he closed his eyes, rested his head on the headrest and listened.
Lizzie's voice soothed and haunted him all at the same time.

'Right. Who's next...?'
Lizzie looked down at her scribbled notes in the margin of
the running order.
'Remember, the number to call is 0990 99 88 77, and I'm
here for you until eleven tonight. Next I'm going to see what
I can do for Robbie on line four... Good evening, Robbie.'
'Hello, Lizzie. All right, sweetheart? Here it is in a nutshell...'
In
a nutshell? Was the man a squirrel?
'Ready?'
Lizzie could feel instant dislike creeping into her headphones,
but made sure her feelings remained undetectable beneath
several layers of professional veneer.
'Ready.'
The and me best mate--'
Lizzie winced. She didn't like to think that she was one of
those people who pulled grammatical rank, but sometimes the
increasingly everyday use of EastEnders English grated. She
buttoned her lip and resisted the almost overwhelming urge she
had to mutter 'my best friend and I' or just The and my best
friend', and focused on listening sympathetically instead.
'--are in love with the same girl. We met her at the same
time and we both fancy her like mad. The trouble is I really
want to ask her out again, but I think my mate would go spare.'
Go spare... Another phrase straight out of Walford's mouth.
'Ask her out againl So you've tried and failed in the past?'
'Yeah. Well, not exactly failed. We both went out with her--
if you know what I'm saying--in our first year at college. He
went out with her first, but then I sharked her off him. He was
well cross.'
'Right. OK.'
Lizzie wasn't sure that it was right or OK. She was tempted
to ask him what he'd done at college that didn't require him
to be able to formulate a coherent sentence, but decided to keep
her prejudice to herself. Robbie seemed to think he was a bit
of a stud. Lizzie's gut instinct told her otherwise. But she knew
better than to get personal.
'Does the girl involved know how you both feel?' Lizzie
never ceased to be amazed at how people got themselves into
these situations. There was a slight pause while Robbie did his
best to summon any emotional intelligence he had to the fore.
His search engine was going to have trouble finding any.
'Not sure. Not really. We're all still mates and that. We have
a few classes together every week. It's just that I really want
to be with her. We had some good times, you know. If you
know what I mean. Trouble is, she's sort of got a boyfriend at
the moment. Nothing serious or nothin', but it makes it all a
bit more tricky.'
'I see...' It seemed the girl had managed a lucky escape...unless,
of course, she was still working her way through all the
undergraduates. Lizzie doubted it. She was sure she could do
better than Robbie at any rate. 'Can I ask how old you are, Robbie?'
'Twenty.'
'And
your mate?'
'Twenty.'
Mere children. In men's years they were still only in their

early-to-mid-teens, with way too much testosterone for their
own good. Lizzie knew she had to take his problem at face
value, even if she was certain that he wouldn't know love if it
came up and tapped him on the shoulder.
'And the girl?'
Poor love, Lizzie thought to herself. Two hormonally
charged students lusting over her and calling up a radio station
for maximum embarrassment when she's trying to date
someone else. Lizzie hoped she wasn't listening.
'Twenty-one, I think.' True love? Hardly. He didn't even
know how old she was, let alone her star sign.
'Have you seen anybody else since the two of you split up?'
Deathly silence. 'Robbie?'
'Well...no...not really. I could've shagged untold women if
I'd wanted, but trouble is I'm in love with her. I should never
have let her go.'
'And can I ask why it ended?'
'Um...well, she said something about me being immature
or something...' Lizzie had to swallow hard to remove the
smile in her voice '...but that was like a year and a bit ago. Now
I know what she wants. Trouble is my mate thinks that he does
too. I don't want this to become some sort of competition.'
Oh, yes. Much less immature now, quite obviously. 'Well,
Robbie, if she's seeing someone else at the moment and seems
to be quite happy with him then I think you and your friend
have got your answer. She's not the only girl on the planet, or
even on campus, and I think you'll find it's much easier and
much more fun to go out with someone that wants to go out
with you too. Plus, it isn't just up to you two to decide, as you
so generously put it, "who gets her". If this girl was single--
and she's obviously not at the moment--ultimately it would
be up to her to decide who she wanted to go out with, and assuming
that she would even contemplate going back over old
ground, if you and your mate don't think that you could cope
with one of you being chosen over the other then maybe you
should agree that she is off-limits for both of you.'
'But...'
'You'll get over it. You're still young. I'd say get out there
and have some fun. But remember--good sex is safe sex.'
'So just shag around and see what happens?' Robbie didn't
sound heartbroken at the prospect of seeing some other girls.
True love was on ice.
'You really do have a way with words, Robbie. I'm surprised
there isn't a queue...'
It was too much for the production team. Phil snorted into
Lizzie's headset, and out of the corner of her eye she could see
the researchers laughing in the phone room. 'And a top tip from
me--maybe if you don't call it "shagging around", you might
just find that there are more girls interested in spending some
time with you. '
Ben was the only one of the team suffering a sense of humour
failure, and he shook his head firmly at her. Lizzie
shrugged her shoulders and mouthed 'tosser' at Ben, but Ben
always had been a bit of a goody-goody. Lizzie knew that
plenty of her listeners would approve of the sarcastic approach
in this instance. And she was sure Robbie could take it--assuming,
of course, he'd even got it in the first place.
'OK, then.' Robbie seemed unfazed. She didn't get the impression
that he was particularly well endowed in the grey matter
department, or indeed in any area. 'And Lizzie?'
'Yup?'
'One more thing.'
Oh, no. Lizzie was sure she didn't want to hear this, but she
couldn't just cut him off... Phil could, though. She nodded at
Phil and mimed cutting her throat with her finger, but he was
obviously doing something technical and wasn't looking.
Damn.
'I'd love to buy you a beer... It's about time someone gave
you a night to remember. You're single now aren't you? Forget
married men. What you need is a younger model.'
It was no good. Phil lost it totally, and as he fell about in the
studio Lizzie could see the researcher who'd briefed Robbie
tearing her hair out in the phone gallery at the way it was all
going. He obviously hadn't sounded like a total wanker when
she'd taken the call earlier.
'Yeah, Robbie--whatever. Don't wait up.'
Time to move it all on. Lizzie glanced at the studio clock
and her running order. 'Right it's 8:22 and you're listening to
City FM on 99.9. Coming up after the adverts is a man with a
voice to soothe and a soul to die for. Mr Bill Withers and
"Lean on Me". Stay with us. We'll be back right after these.'
It was all cued up. Lizzie took her headphones off for a
minute. Her ears needed some air. Ben's body language indicated
he was limbering up for a rant.
'Steady on, Liz. He rang in for advice, not a dressing down.'
'He was a jumped-up little wanker, Ben, and you know it.'
'You know you just have to be nice, though. It's still the first
half-hour of the show and you never know who's listening.'
'Ease up.' Phil came to Lizzie's defence. 'He was a total
twat...probably wanks himself to sleep over her publicity
shot...'
'Thanks.' His intentions might have been honourable but
Lizzie didn't appreciate the mental picture that Phil had just
painted. It was too sordid for her female mind to want to visualise.
Men.
'Don't worry, mate.' Phil hadn't finished yet. 'Seriously, I
doubt he was listening...and even if he was I bet he was having
a bloody good laugh. You have to, draw the line somewhere.'
Ben
was always paranoid until 9:00 p.m. as he had it on
good authority--i.e. he had slept with the controller's PA's best
friend on more than one occasion--that big boss Richard
Drake often listened to the first part of her show on a Tuesday,
when he was at the gym. Lizzie hoped he had been mid-sit-up
during her mini-outburst, just in case he, like Ben, had failed
to see the funny side.
'Sorry.' It wouldn't have registered on even the most sensitive
apology scale but it seemed to do the trick for now. Just
sometimes Lizzie had to handle things her way.
Phil mixed back to the studio a few seconds early and Lizzie
was miles away, with Bill Withers and a bunch of flowers. It
was only a split-second silence, but enough to get Ben waving
his arms quite strenuously. Lizzie dipped her head to apologise
silently while burbling away into her microphone on
automatic pilot.
'How was that for you? I love that song. Restores my faith
in human nature. Remember, you can always lean on us if you
need anything. The number, just to remind you, is 0990 99 88
77 and the time is 8:26. I'm Lizzie Ford. You're listening to
City FM and this is The Agony and the Ecstasy.'
As she was going through her spiel Ben's voice cut into her
headphones. 'Lost Sam on line six; instead going to line five.
A man. Won't give his name. Wing it and for Christ's sake be
gentle. Only three minutes thirty-two to the news.'
'Now, we have a mystery man on line five who'd rather not
give us his name.'
Could it be? Lizzie was an irrepressible optimist.
'Hello, line five.' She was as cheery as you could be if you
didn't know who you were about to speak to and were hoping
for the man of your daydream to surprise you. Her heart
skipped a beat in the momentary silence before he spoke.
'Hello, Lizzie.'
It wasn't the voice she'd been hoping to hear. She fought
off disappointment. No wonder she always felt let down. Her
expectations were obviously far too high.
'I need a bit of a female perspective.'
'I can certainly help you with that...' He sounded normal
enough, and thankfully a million miles from Planet Robbie at
any rate.
'It all sounds a bit pathetic, really, but I didn't know who
else to call. The thing is I've had a bit of a fight with my girlfriend.
I'm thirty-two and we've been together for just over a
year and a half now, and it's all been going really well. Then,
in a fit of jealousy, I went and accused her of something she
hasn't done. She denied it, but I wouldn't take no for an answer,
so she packed me a bag, took my keys and threw me out
of the flat. Now she won't have me back because she says that
she can't share her life with a man who doesn't trust her.'
'You can see her point. Why didn't you believe her the first
time?'
'Oh, all the usual recipes for disaster. I'd had a couple of
beers; I'd been wound up by my mates. I just lost it, I'm afraid.
I realise now that I was totally out of order. I love her and I
want to make it up to her. She means the world to me. But typically
every time I try and apologise something goes wrong,
and now she won't even answer my calls. I leave messages
every time. I've even dropped in to see her but she never answers
the door.'
'Maybe she's out.'
'Maybe. Either way, I just don't know what to do next.'
'If I were you I'd lay off the heavy-handed approach...stop
pestering her with calls and visits. Don't take mis the wrong
way, but right now she's probably worrying that you're some
sort of nutter. If you keep this up she'll think she's had a lucky
escape.'
They were running up to the news. Ben had just started
counting down twenty seconds in her eyeline. Pushed for time
and thinking about Matt, Lizzie knew exactly what to suggest.
'Send her some flowers and a simple message and then sit
tight. If she still doesn't get in touch wait a few days, then give
her a call--just the one, though. Tell her how you feel, but
make sure you give her time to come round. Don't bombard
her with attention. There's a fine line between stalking and caring.
Let her miss you and just remember that to be there for
her you don't need to be sitting on her doorstep when she gets
back from work every day. Give her space, but don't give up.
No one said women were easy, but we're worth it.'
There was a smile in her voice and this time she got a
thumbs-up from Ben, who seemed to have forgiven her for her
vacant moment at the top of the link. Lizzie was in good spirits.
The mystery man thanked her as they came off the air for
the news, but she had really only been half speaking to him.

For the first time in weeks Lizzie was talking to him; Matt
was sure of it. He grabbed his mobile from the passenger seat

and pressed 'call'. Engaged. 'Redial'. Still no joy. He dialled
Lizzie's mobile and it went straight to answer-phone. He
swung his car into a U-turn and, leaving a symphony of horns
in his wake, put his foot down as he accelerated towards the
studios. He knew the other drivers were probably calling him
all sorts of names--and, yes, they were right, he probably did
look like a poseur in his white T-shirt, sunglasses and classic
convertible. But what did he have to lose? Traffic permitting,
he'd find out soon enough.

The news was over and according to the running order they
had another two minutes of ads. Ben was giving Lizzie the lowdown
on the next couple of callers while the researcher who'd
vetted Robbie had gone to chainsmoke herself into the recovery
position.
Ben stopped mid-sentence as the white light on the wall
started flashing silently. The private studio phone was ringing,
which usually only meant one thing. Richard Drake had been
listening and had a pearl of wisdom that he wished to impart
on 'his' team. He only called at inopportune moments and always
expected undivided attention. He didn't seem to understand
the way live radio worked, even though he proudly told
anyone who wanted to know--and quite a few others--that
he'd worked his way to the top from the very bottom.
Phil answered it in the sound gallery. The team could see
him through the soundproof glass studio divider, and although
they couldn't hear what he was saying his face was definitely
registering concern.
There was a click as he opened up studio talkback and
pointed at Lizzie through the window. 'Hey, Ford, it's for you.'
Ben's shoulders visibly relaxed as the tension passed on to
his presenter.
'Who is it?' Lizzie folded her arms across her chest defensively.
Still seated, she propelled herself to the private phone
courtesy of her executive chair, and while she waited for Phil
to patch it through she braced herself for the worst.
Thinking back, she knew she shouldn't have been quite so
tetchy with that Robbie bloke. But she could have been a lot
worse, and she certainly didn't want to have to make some
gormless apology on air. Shit. Why did Richard have to be listening
tonight? She really didn't want to have to do the humble
pie, yes sir, no sir routine... She wasn't in the mood.
She was about to pick up the receiver when Phil's voice cut
into the studio again. 'They've gone. It was Security. Apparently
you've got a visitor. Male. White. Um...that's about all
they could tell me. A guy asked for you at the front desk, then
it seems got bored of the whole red tape thing and just jumped
the gate and headed straight for the lifts. They just wanted to
warn you in case he gets here before they do. They're going
to try and intercept him at fourth floor reception.'
Lizzie's pulse raced. Maybe Robbie had been some sort of
psycho caller.
'Thirty seconds.'Apparently unperturbed that his presenter's
life might be in danger, Ben reminded Lizzie that she still had
a show to do.
Nervously she put on her headphones, shutting out the outside
world. She didn't have a lot of faith in station security.
They never seemed to be even remotely on the ball. She wondered
whether the studio window into the corridor was bulletproof
as well as soundproof, and wished she hadn't stayed up
watching some trigger-happy-good-guy-gets-shot Americanmade-for-TV-action-movie
last night.
'Coming to you in ten, nine, eight...' the studio clock was
ominously counting down in red seconds '...seven, six...fuck...
nutter alert.'
Lizzie swung round in her chair and was about to throw herself
to the floor with her hands over her head to protect her
from the now almost inevitable--in her overactive imagination,
at least--spray of bullets, when her heart stopped. There
on the other side of" the soundproof glass was a very familiar

J

face, shortly joined by two security guards who grabbed an arm
each. Lizzie squealed.
'Two, one...cue Lizzie.'
She was on air and speechless. Not a winning combination.
Her eyes fixed on Matt, she found her voice a few seconds later
and luckily for her career something vaguely appropriate came
out before all the listeners fiddled with their radios in search
of a station which actually had some output. Ben looked as if
he was watching Wimbledon as he desperately tried to work
out what the hell was going on and why it had to happen during
his show.
'Um...sorry about that...everything seems to have gone a bit
haywire at our end. Right...welcome back. I'm Lizzie Ford and
this is City FM...' Lizzie took a deep breath. Her chest was tight
with a cocktail of excitement, fear and emotion. Now she could
understand how people had heart attacks from shock. 'More
calls and music in a minute, but first of all let me share something
with you. Phil, mike up my visitor, will you?'
She winked at Matt, who was now face to face with her, give
or take several inches of glass. He was smiling apprehensively.
He couldn't believe he was actually standing there, but he was
ecstatic to see that Lizzie looked pleased--make that very pleased--to see him.
Security loosened their grip and he walked to the studio door
as fast as his suddenly shaky legs would allow.
'Now, I know some of you are familiar with the events of
my love life over recent months. By no means my finest hour
in terms of doing the right thing, but for a few precious weeks
the best example I will probably ever be able to find of following
your heart...'
Matt could feel himself melting. He wanted to have his
arms full of Lizzie, but instead he had some guy clipping a microphone
onto his T-shirt a few frustrating metres from where
he wanted to be. He took a deep breath.
'As you know it was all over--for the best, I told myself. I
told him to go and he disappeared...back to his wife, I presumed.
I heard nothing. I dealt with the overwhelming disappointment
as best I could, did my best to move on, and then
341


today I discovered that he's been sending me flowers for
weeks. My flatmate had been intercepting them. To protect me
from myself. But I found out. And now, just a minute ago, he
arrived here at the studio, out of the blue...'
Lizzie wished she could find a modicum of privacy for her
and Matt. She looked across to Ben, who was just staring at
her, as was Phil, as were the researchers from the phone gallery.
It was like something out of a Musical Statues masterclass. She was going to have to carry on. Against her better judgement,
she was going to have to finish what she'd started.
'I'm not sure what he wants, or what's changed, but I just
have to find out. So please excuse me for this moment of total
self-indulgence and let me introduce you to him. Matt--hello.'
'Hi...'
He said it really slowly. Lizzie had an overwhelming urge
to tear her headphones off and kiss him.
It was just like a scene from a film. Matt wondered who he'd
want to play his character... He wasn't sure about this whole
live on the radio thing, but he didn't really have much choice
now. 'I'm not sure what I'm doing here, but something made
me come. I've been trying to get in touch with you for weeks.
So much has changed...'
Lizzie smiled at him, her eyes searching his, begging him
to say what she wanted to hear. His surroundings blurred into
insignificance. As far as he was concerned there was only one
person he wanted to speak to and she was right in front of him.
This was his chance.

Clare's mobile rang in her bag. She blushed as she rummaged
for the source of the noise and wished she had opted
for the original ring rather than the electronic version of the Happy Days theme tune which had seemed such a good idea
at the time. She was sure she'd turned if off when they'd sat
down. As she reached to silence it she spotted the caller ID and,
apologetically mouthing 'sorry' to Ed, answered it as discreetly
as she could, willing none of the other diners or waiting
staff to lynch her at the table.

'Hello? Annie? Is everything OK?'
'Are you listening?'
'Yup. Go ahead.' Clare half covered her mouth with her
hand in an attempt to keep the noise to a minimum.
'No. Are you listening1? To her show?'
'No. I'm in a restaurant.' God, Annie could be demanding.
Clare was a person in her own right, and her life continued on
Tuesday and Thursday evenings whether she liked it or not.
She might share a flat with her daughter but she wasn't married
to her.
'Well, get yourself to a radio now. He's on--with her. It's--
well...it's gripping. Do you know? I think it all might work out.'
'Who's on...?' And then it dawned on her 'Matt...on the
radio...with Lizzie?' Clare forgot about being quiet. Her volume
settings were suddenly all over the place. 'How? When?'
She stood up without thinking and then sat down again very
quickly, her voice a whisper as her cheeks reddened. 'What's
he said so far?'
'He just turned up while she was doing her show. Seems
keen. I haven't been able to get through. But anyway, I'm sure
I'm the last person she wants to speak to right now. I think little
Lizzie has got her hands quite full enough at the moment.'
'I don't believe it.' Clare was genuinely excited for Lizzie.
'Has he left Rachel? Has he said?' Talk about timing. A couple
of minutes ago she'd been on a genuine date for the first
time in years, and now she was going to have leave before it
had even started.
Ed, who to Clare's amusement up until now had been trying
to pretend that he was absorbed in his menu and not really
listening, finally gave up and cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.
Clare nodded to confirm that his hearing had indeed been perfect
and, still on the phone, instinctively stood up to go. Apparently
unruffled by the unorthodox behaviour of his date, Ed
slipped a credit card to the waiter, told him they'd be back, and
then, taking Clare's hand, led her out of the restaurant. She relaxed
at his touch. It was great to have someone else taking
charge for a change.
'Listen, Clare, I've got to go. I don't want to miss any of it.'
'Thanks for letting me know. We're on our way to the car
to listen now.' But Annie had already gone.
As she sat in the passenger seat of Ed's car on the second
floor of the NCP car park on Brewer Street she couldn't help
but beam at the world around her. It was all working out perfectly.

The
incoming lines were flashing madly. Ben wasn't surprised;
the atmosphere in the studio was electric. Relieved to
have a purpose, he went into the phone gallery to see what they
wanted. A few seconds later he flicked his mike on and whispered
into Lizzie's ear. 'Terrific stuff. Listeners desperate to
speak to you. Lines two and three cued up. Take them as and
when.' He scrunched his running order into a ball and tossed
it into the bin. You couldn't plan radio like this.
'So, you see, I have so much to thank you for...' Matt paused.
Lizzie was motionless. Suspended in time. He was hers. He
had left. Weeks ago. She allowed herself to dream the happy
ending. Warning bells sounded all over her body. If he let her
down again she wasn't sure that she'd recover. Mind you, neither
would he if Clare got to him first. What happened now?
She couldn't find words. Thankfully Ben was paying attention
and helped her out with a timely interjection.
'Phil on standby with music and ads, and callers on line two
and three for you. Two is someone who claims to know you.
Clare from Putney, is it? Anyway, she says "Go for it".'
Lizzie nodded silently as her heart soared. A lone tear escaped
and hit the top of her smile as she clamped her lips together
to prevent a full-blown sob escaping. To Ben's horror she took her headphones off and leaned across, away from the
mike, ready to receive the kiss that Matt was about to give her.
She melted into his lips. It was time for Ben to take the initiative
and earn his salary.
At 8:46 and twenty-one seconds the listeners of The Agony
and the Ecstasy were treated to a medley of jingles followed
by three songs in a row, thanks to the humane spontaneity and
whizz-kid versatility of Phil, who could see that their resident
agony aunt was in no fit state to speak to anyone.
He'd worked on the show for long enough to know how
much Lizzie valued her own space, and by the look of it Lizzie
and Matt needed a couple of minutes to themselves. Not that
they'd really noticed that there was anyone around anyway.
They were caught up in a moment--a moment Lizzie deserved--and
Phil wasn't going to be the one to spoil it.
Neither was Ben. His lips were working overtime, but unknown
to him Phil had faded his microphone to nothing while
he concentrated on picking a handful of suitable tunes to take
them through to the news.
See Jane Date

by
Melissa Senate

60 days to find a date!

According to reliable sources, there are well-documented ways
to go from single to married in New York City without:
A) kissing fifty frogs, B) unwittingly sleeping with a serial killer,
or C) settling for second test.

Unless your name is Jane, and you urgently need to find
Mr Right tefore your cousin's socially exclusive wedding -- or
risk being branded as a spinster and a failure for all eternity!
Jane isn't an editor of celebrity memoirs for nothing: she knows
the power of gossip -- and she aoesn 't want to be the target of it!
Enduring two months of bridesmaid hell is punishment enough
for being inconveniently single. . .

With the clock ticking, Jane is forced to subject herself to a
succession of blind dates with a glittering array of Manhattan's
most 'eligible' bachelors -- and discovers a whole new side to
herself she never knew existed!


I

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