Name & Address Withheld (25 page)

‘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 floor-to-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 Sharples 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
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
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.
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 pushing-forty-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 hope
less
—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
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…?’