Name & Address Withheld (10 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sure. Sorry.’

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

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

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

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

‘Well, isn’t Matt a lucky boy…?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘In which case, where is he now?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Was it worth it?’

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

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

‘I’ll get it!’ Clare shouted.

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

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

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

‘Hmm… What?’

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

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

Darling Lizzie…

Woo-hoo.

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

Lots of love, Matt xx

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

‘So, he’s a skier.’

‘Apparently so.’

‘But not a poseur.’

‘Definitely not.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Me too.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oi, you.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Me too. Take care.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

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

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

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

chapter 8

T
he 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.