Читать книгу Name and Address Withheld - Jane Sigaloff - Страница 11

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

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

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

‘Morning. How was last night, then?’

‘Great…’

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

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

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

‘I’ll fill you in after my shower.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Poor you…’ Clare empathised fervently.

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

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

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

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

‘I see.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘With…’

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

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

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

‘Yeah.’

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

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

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

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

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

Clare adopted her best quasi legal tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clare looked at her watch. ‘Your afternoon…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Heylo?’

‘Liz, it’s me…’

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

‘Clare.’

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

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

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

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

‘No problem. See you in a bit.’

‘Bye.’

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

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

‘Heylo?’

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

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

‘I hope I haven’t interrupted anything…’

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

‘On a Saturday? You are conscientious.’

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

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

‘That Thai curry you were telling me about…’

‘Mmm…’

‘What was the fresh herb you needed?’

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

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

‘No problem.’

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

‘OK. Speak to you later.’

‘Bye.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So when are you going to call?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Annie. Hi. Yes, thanks…’

Her mother. Again.

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

What did she know?

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

Whose mother was she anyway?

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

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

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

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

‘Yup?’

‘Lizzie?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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