Name & Address Withheld (15 page)

‘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
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-other-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 Matt’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…yeah right. Only spelt s.c.a.r.e.d.o.f.c.o.m.m. I.t.m.e.n.t.o.f.l.o.s. I.n.g.c.o.n.t.r.o.l.a.n.d.b.e. I.n.g.h.u.r.t. And then of course there was her genuine mortgage phobia. Owing someone in excess of £200,000 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…’

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 clichés, even from the King of Cliché 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
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 Matt’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.